


Oxygen

by terma_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-01-01
Updated: 2002-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:14:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26498467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terma_archivist/pseuds/terma_archivist
Summary: This story is part of the Resist and Serve series. Oxygen is the companion piece to Optimism, because I wanted to flip the coin and do Alex's POV on those events. Same story from another set of eyes.
Relationships: Alex Krycek/Fox Mulder
Collections: TER/MA





	Oxygen

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alicettlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [TER/MA](https://fanlore.org/wiki/TER/MA) and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2019. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the TER/MA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/terma/profile).

**Oxygen  
by Ratadder**

  
**21:15**

When my alarm goes off I want to shoot it. I jerk out of sleep and actually have my hand on my gun before I chill. Can't blame the clock when I'm the one who set it. I can't remember the last time I went to sleep with the intention of waking up when I damn well felt like it.

But I give myself this schedule for a reason, so I force my way out from under the covers and bite down on my annoyance. I start an automatic review of my mental databanks even before my feet hit the floor, calling up the list for today. I get my arm on, forcing away the sleep-muzziness and trying not to wince as I review the priorities for the day. Got to go back out and pressure our darling allies all over again. Didn't make much headway yesterday. Sonuvabitch. Talk about my favorite way to spend time. I lean against the wall and stretch, wishing just once I could crawl back into bed and call in... sick. Or something.

Oh well. Hours to go before that meet. Time enough to dread it later. I can feel the start of a headache at the base of my skull already.

By the time I'm shuffling through my clothes and yanking on my favorite black turtleneck, I remember the side trip I took on my way home six hours before, and a grin splits my face. What do you know, I actually have something fun to do this morning. Okay, this evening. Well, technically it's even long past evening... oh fuck it.

I shimmy into my jeans and grab my jacket, checking the pockets. Brown sugar, check. As I go through the coat trying to remember where I stashed the pecans, the absolute absurdity of buying presents for Walter Skinner hits me full force and I choke a laugh. The sign of a deranged mind... living underground obviously finally got to me. Hope he appreciates how far out of my way I went for these.

Suppose I should be hoping he doesn't think they're poisoned. I think we're past that point. I hope we are.

Seemed the least I could do was buy him a few treats given the way I keep snagging him right off shift and chewing his ear off for hours about Operation Twinkle, not to mention the more mundane elements of running the Resistance. Yeah, I think we're definitely past the fear-of-poisoning point. For all our ugly history he's been amazingly good-natured about being my sounding board. Not that I'm certain exactly how he turned into my sounding board, but after bringing him in on Samantha, it just kind of happened. Once he knew that bit of privileged information, everything else I might consider sensitive data paled by comparison.

Not that I tell him everything. I don't tell anyone everything. That would be anti-survival. But I tell him enough that the line between what I do tell him and 'everything else' is getting thinner every day. I think maybe I'm just getting used to having someone to talk to.

A little shopping was a small enough thing as a bit of a thank you. Besides, I was out anyway.

My fingers find the pecans in my inner jacket pocket. Smuggled items secure and accounted for. Not that I'm surprised. The day anyone gets into my room, gets pecans from my jacket and gets back out again without waking me up is the day I turn my gun on myself. Not that anyone would be looking to steal my pecans. At least I assume no one here would be...

I stop that line of thinking before it can progress any further. Pecan-paranoia I can do without. Talk about derangement. I definitely need more sleep. Or caffeine, the next best thing. Which may even have the pleasant side effect of turning off the threatening headache. I leave my room and let my feet carry me by habit.

On the way to my precious caffeine, I go back to running my mental lists, the omnipresent thrum of Samantha pressing on me. I wonder if this is what it was like for Mulder, before. Before he found out what he thinks he found out. Before he let her go to his pretty fantasy of starlight and rescued children. I wonder if he walked through life with her pressing on him like a constant accusation, a constant needle in the back of his brain to do something, act, move, _get her back_.

Would make it easier to understand some of his stupider, wilder leaps. His reckless abandon. Makes you want to _do_ something, even if it's bound to fail, just so you know you're not just sitting, not trying, while who knows what could be happening to her.

Of course he didn't have the knowledge, only the supposition. The hope. I've got the full knowledge sitting on my shoulder, whispering in my ear, telling me all about what could happen if I wait one more day, one more hour. I glance at my watch and suddenly the hours until my next meet with the Rebels seem too long instead of too short. This is it. If I can't get them today, we go in without their help.

I can't wait any longer. She can't wait any longer.

Coffee in hand, I track down Seville and get the first of the shift updates. Nothing needing attention from any of the teams checking in during my off hours. All quiet on the oilien front. I release a small sigh of relief and go over the roster with her. No changes. Perfect. I made sure Mulder was back in off perimeter and safely on doors before I went to sleep, but this slowdown we've been under has hit him hard. He's been getting antsier by the day—hell, by the hour—and it wouldn't be the first time he decided he should be doing something other than what he's assigned to do.

It's harder now for him to slip anything past me, like he did back in the first weeks after he came in with the Resistance. I put a back-up team on him after the first unauthorized trip he took, and what with Samantha's name appearing everywhere but overhead in neon lights at the moment, I've stuck a second team on him. He's covered at all times he's not right where I can see him, either in person or remotely. He's covered even when I can see him.

I still worry.

How can I not? He's got all the self-preservation instinct of a may fly. And I can't keep Scully on him all the time; we need her medical skills as much as he needs her common sense. Especially now that we're starting to stack up the refugees from the labs on level 4.

I release Seville from charge duty and she heads for the cafeteria with a silent nod. I wish all my people had her gift for understatement. I'd have less headaches, both figurative and literal. Whoever thought power would be such a pain in the ass. Sometimes I remember a younger me and it makes me want to laugh so hard it hurts. I spend another few minutes skimming the roster, placing Mulder mentally for the next 24 hours, then head for information central. Spending more time there than usual, but damage control takes precedence. There are worse places to waste time.

I push through the door of security and Langly speaks from his chair without turning around, fingers still flying over keys. "I still think you're wrong."

"So what else is new," I mutter under my breath as I walk up to the banks of monitors and start flipping switches, calling up the specific views I want.

He turns to me and starts right in, as if we never stopped talking. "I still don't understand why I can't tell him. Even if it is a dead-end, I don't get it, dude. I mean don't you think he should _know_ they're throwing out Samantha-bites?" His beady eyes don't give an inch, don't even blink behind those stupid glasses. "He should _know_ , man. It's his right."

"Tell me I don't need to go through this with you again." I let my voice fall into the silky purr of my best threats. He bristles, but out of the corner my eye I also see him pale. Good. Get it through your head, you stupid fuck. This is not a game. I flick through various images from all over the compound, ostensibly checking in on all aspects of life underground, in actuality ascertaining Mulder is where he's supposed to be. It occurs to me to wonder if I'll ever get past the perpetual fear crawling up my spine that he's gone and done something stupid while I've slept.

The headache I've almost succeeded in ignoring tightens its icy little fingers on my temples.

I finish flipping views, resetting screens to the standard rotation and turn to face Langly at last. He's still staring at me, waiting, nervous but defiant. Can't fault the boys on their loyalty, even though it's all to him. I shut myself down, draining all expression from my face, letting my eyes go to Rebel-talks blankness. Every muscle goes still and even my breathing gets softer, quieter. It's the stillness of the assassin and he knows it. What he doesn't know is how safe he is, and _that_ I don't plan on sharing with him. He swallows, hard. I let the silence stretch, holding his eyes.

In moments, he breaks. My previous discussion on taking him apart piece by piece must have gotten through to him. The only thing I lacked in the presentation was a laptop with Power Point. His eyes wrench away from my face and flit anxiously around the room, alighting on me and skating away over and over as he starts babbling, high forehead glistening in sudden sweat.

"So okay, yeah, I get it, and I know you're the big bad and what you say, goes. Chill, man. I haven't said anything. I still think it's wrong not to let him at least know and I don't get why you got so bent out of shape about it and I still say it'd be better for us to tell him than for him to run into some kind of word out there in the field and—"

He falters to a stop when I lay a hand on his shoulder. Hey, at least it's my real one. He swallows hard again and looks like he may have stopped breathing for a moment. I dearly hope I don't end up needing to do mouth-to-mouth just to keep one of Mulder's little friends alive. Especially if I'm the one responsible for scaring him to death. I squeeze once, firm but not too threatening. I lean in and he's stuck. Can't look away. I keep my voice as dead as my expression. This is all I have, and I have to shut him up. "Langly. He got closure. He let it go. After over _25 years_ of pain and hell and searching, he got his answer." I tighten my fingers slowly. "Do you _really_ want to take that away from him because the Other Side has decided it might be fun, not to mention helpful to Their cause, to throw Mulder off balance again?" I let the silence sit, heavy and ominous. I'm easy with silence. Much easier than other people. Especially other people around me. I can see his chin tremble in my peripheral vision. I just wait it out.

When he finally realizes I actually want an answer and I'm not going to give up without one, he croaks, "No."

"No. I didn't think so. _I_ know she's dead. Whether it happened the way he now believes, or in a lab or on a spaceship, it happened. Let him believe what makes his life somewhat easier. No one's ever done that for him. You don't have a duty to tell him, you've got a duty _not_ to tell him. Leave worrying about him 'running into' it to me. That's my job." My hand tightens enough to actually hurt, then releases completely, and I straighten up. Over the hum of computers I can hear someone coming down the hall.

Langly drops the subject too as the door opens and Byers walks in. I nod cordially. "John."

"Alex." He settles into his seat and sips at his coffee. "You here for the downloads?"

I meet Langly's eyes again. "Yes. Langly was just about to run through them with me." I drop into a free chair. At least they're used to me hanging around in here frequently. It's the easiest place to keep tabs on... everything.

Langly shoots me a dark look but says nothing. "Hey Byers, thanks for getting _me_ something on your break," he tosses off roughly, playing with his keyboard for a moment and then angling the monitor toward me.

"You didn't ask for anything," John returns mildly without looking up from his work.

With a snort, Langly taps the screen. "Only two intercepts, and nothing important. They're being damned quiet and I don't like it."

I stare at the screen and arrow down through the remote reports, and the two Colonist intercepts. He's right. Nothing important. It's like... they're lying in wait. I always knew Mulder was important to the old man. The old men. But why are the Colonists so set on baiting him out _now_? We've gotten in some hard hits over the last months. We've taken out a good number of their domestic and foreign labs. We've definitely held up their full-scale plans, but they still hold DC, key foreign cities, and enough powerful people to enact a sudden spring attack that the general public won't even blink over. Any day I expect to wake up to Africanized honey bees swarming all over everything, carrying the new Black Death. Mulder's desire to shout the Resistance call-to-arms from every rooftop is starting to look appealing.

But not yet. Not yet. I need her first. Before anything else. I need her.

Scratch that... _he_ needs her. This is for him, not me. I rub my eyes tiredly and turn back to my coffee and the bank of monitors. John casually hits in a few entries and the monitor directly in front of me suddenly flashes a steady rotation of Mulder's current station, a wide-angle perimeter shot... and the hall view overlooking Mulder and Skinner's room. I blink and try to decide if I even want to react. He studiously avoids looking anywhere near me and continues to watch the changing screens in between playing with his laptop. Finally I decide it needs some sort of response, and I turn slowly, focus my gaze on him without a word.

One minute... two... he fidgets, catches himself, then tilts his head to give me a sideways look. "Effective intelligence operatives take initiative and ascertain directives before they're given," he offers.

Langly tosses us a quizzical look. I ignore him. Eyes half-closed, I just stare at Byers.

"It's what we do, Alex. Figure out patterns through careful observation. There's no magic to it. You always want to know _he_ is where he's supposed to be. You like knowing the outside is clear. And Skinner's due back on duty within the next two hours so he should be getting up anytime," he elaborates, carefully expressionless. "You always check in with him at the beginning and end of his shifts."

I blink again, and turn back to the screen that for the moment becomes mine. I settle back in my chair and take longer swallows as my coffee cools. What a careful answer. Of course John Fitzgerald Byers is a careful man. It could mean nothing. It could mean everything. He's an observant little prick. Absolutely nothing out of line in his comments. Handed me perfect reasons. Logical reasons. Just because I know my reasons better, no cause to think he does too. No reason to think he has the full story.

I don't even think I've got the full story. Be a damned travesty if he knew it before I did. Christ, don't tell me I'm getting predictable. Predictability is death in my line of work.

My old line of work.

Walter intimated Mulder didn't have a clue. He didn't say anything about... anyone else. I know some of my people, the ones I knew before the Resistance, have their theories. I can ignore them. They don't exactly spend a lot of down time with Mulder. But Mulder's friends? Different story. I suppose it was asking a lot for _no one_ to notice how often I check up on Mulder. No reason to assume John thinks anything but... that Mulder is a pain in the ass and I like to know where he is. So I know he's not out fucking up.

Right? _Right_?

Shoot me now.

Don't think about it, Alex. Just put it out of your goddamn head.

The headache throbs with new life behind my left eye.

So. I check in with Skinner at the beginning and end of his shifts? I comb my last few weeks and find John's right. I do. I hadn't noticed... well, that sounds stupid. I know I've been meeting with him more, talking to him more. Mostly I track him down anytime we've both got a free hour. I guess I just hadn't noticed how... routinized it's gotten. I've been timing my schedule around Mulder since he joined the Resistance, choosing his targets based on which strikes I need to be personally in on, sleeping when he's on "safe" duties, meeting with the Rebels when he's coming off 16 hour shifts and dead-tired. Only as I mentally rewind through the previous weeks do I consciously realize how I've taken to working Walter into the scheduling. Timing my schedule to his. Sleeping when he's sleeping, making sure I wake up before he does, then finding him as soon as he's up.

Putting Mulder and him on different schedules. He made an off-hand comment about how Mulder's insomnia interrupts his own sleep. Given the way I've always worked myself around Mulder, it wasn't any effort at all to pace Walter to my timetable, and have him and Mulder at cross sleeping times.

I realize I'm scowling and calm my expression. But fuck... that's a fairly large routine to get into without consciously realizing it. I don't like doing things without thinking about them. Gets you in trouble. Habitual behavior is always dangerous. And intimates a need, a dependency.

A flash of movement in the returned hallway image catches my eye. I see the top of Walter's head as he shuts his door behind him, and sets off down the hall. I lean forward and flip the manual switches to get the sequence of cameras I want to move between now, taking an easy guess where he's heading. Sure enough, "breakfast" time.

Pushing back my chair I stand and nod to John. "I'm going to go catch him." What the hell. He's the one who told me I always check in with Skinner. Not like it'll be news to him. No reason to think he knows _why_ I need to talk to Skinner so often. Even if Langly did let the Sam-intercept slip to him. Which is certainly possible, even though he swears he didn't tell anyone. Hell, the Gunmen probably don't even consciously think of passing information to each other as "telling anyone". But still, knowing there's a Samantha red herring floating around doesn't translate into knowing that Skinner and I are plotting Operation Twinkle. John's hardly going to make that lightening of a leap. He's not Mulder, after all.

I cuff Langly lightly in the back of the head as I walk past him. "Later. Keep it real." The warning note in my voice reaches him and I feel his glare on me as I leave. Let him stew. As long as he stews silently.

I head on down to the cafeteria, feeling lighter already, like my day's just improved. Interesting commentary on my life when my meetings with Walter Skinner are the high points of my day. But damn, I can actually _talk_ to the man. I don't have to watch every third word like I do with everybody else. I know if I say something in front of him, it doesn't go anywhere beyond him. That's nothing short of amazing in a closed community like the Resistance has become.

Talking to him, talking _with_ him, is different. Originally I started asking him for his thoughts and input on strikes as a manipulation. You get further with testosterone-cases like him by asking instead of ordering; I've worked with his kind before. But you get even further listening to people who obviously have a brain and know how to use it. I listen to Mulder more often than he thinks I do, because I'd be a fool not to. Mulder's brilliant, on more than just one level. Just because I don't do what he says _all_ the time he acts like I never listen, but I always listen. I just sometimes have to have different priorities than he does. But Skinner... he's a thinker, and a good one. Maybe not the same kind of awe-inspiring brilliance, but a quieter, more solid kind of thinker. Good planner, strategist... _and_ thinks on his feet. He understands prioritizing too. Being realistic, taking the lesser of two evils because the alternative of refusing both isn't an option. He understands doing something not very pretty, because you have to.

And he hears me out, doesn't assume he knows what I mean, and doesn't give me shit about every decision I make, every order I give. He still tells me if he disagrees with me, but he actually asks for my reasoning, and _listens_ to it. Doesn't look at me like I just crawled out from under a rotting log. Unlike certain other people I could obsess about.

Who am I kidding. Certain other people I _do_ obsess about.

But with Skinner, it's like he's stopped... judging me. Or like he's trying real hard to stop. Like he's willing to assume that if I risked my life for his, maybe there's more to me than what he thought, maybe he can approach me with a fresh perspective. Makes me feel like I can just relax a little. Say things I think, even if I haven't gone over them fifteen times in my head, first.

If I'd known the result it would get, I'd have arranged to save his life a lot sooner. Even if I had to set up the threat myself.

Hell, he even backs me against Mulder if he honestly thinks I'm right. Talk about amazing. He's got this fair-minded thing going, that I guess I just never expected to have directed toward me. Not after some of the things I've done. Couldn't believe it the first time he came down with me against Mulder. Now it's a regular occurrence. He knows how to put the mission above everything else, even when he doesn't like it. He doesn't do it as easily as I do, and I wouldn't want him to, but he knows how, and he _will_ when push comes to shove. I respect that. Weird but... I'm starting to respect a lot about him.

Funny that back in the beginning I thought he was just another Consortium pawn. Thought his hands were as dirty as mine, he just washed up better. It's taken awhile, but I finally ended up seeing why Mulder and Scully hung in there so long on him. When he gets your back, you know it. You can feel it. Odd feeling. Not common in my line of work. In my line of life.

And he actually did me a favor, making it so clear he... understood. About Mulder. I wouldn't have thought of it as a favor. When I realized what he was saying that night, with all the Lois double-talk, I didn't feel particularly thankful for whatever insight made him put two and two together. But since then, it's been... nice. Even that thought makes me uncomfortable, like I want to look over my shoulder, but there it is.

It's nice.

Nice to have someone I really don't have to guard myself around, don't have to worry about him guessing I've got some kind of thing for Mulder. Since he already _knows_ I've got a huge fucking thing for Mulder. He doesn't use it against me, or take cheap shots about it, like I expected he would. And he doesn't seem about to say anything either. Not to Mulder, thankfully. Not to anybody.

All told, makes him the easiest person to talk to since... well, I don't actually remember any particular person in my life being easier. I'm sure I could come up with one if I tried.

Probably.

Coming up on the cafeteria saves me from racking my memory banks.

I slip through the cafeteria doors and catch sight of Walter immediately. He's sort of hard to miss. Standing in front of the serving station looking lost in thought. Not a common look on him, and something pokes me... an almost unrecognizable little voice whispering 'have some fun' in my ear. I cut to the left and approach him from behind, waving to silence the two tables I pass that look like they're about to speak to me. Fumbling the pecans out of my pocket I ghost up close enough to touch as he serves himself oatmeal. Ha. Predictability, thy name is Walter Skinner. Can I call 'em or what. He stares at the disgusting excuse for a cereal like waiting for it to answer whatever has him so distracted and I extend my hand over his shoulder, letting pecans drop one by one into his bowl.

He doesn't turn around, but I can hear the smile in his voice when he says casually, "Got brown sugar?"

"For a price," I murmur in my best clandestine voice. "Special stash... keep it quiet."

I almost laugh out loud when he follows suit and gets all James Bond. "My lips are sealed," he mutters out of the corner of his mouth. "Where?"

Something nicely code-like, I think. "Meet me in outer space. Make sure nobody follows you." I don't wait for a reply, retreating with the same stealth I approached with, at twice the speed. I slow at the doorway just long enough for him to catch my getaway, if he turns around.

I'm halfway to my room before it occurs to me to wonder _what_ the hell anyone who saw that little display made of it. Oh well. Nobody questions me. The upside of being in charge, and there are enough fucking downsides that there ought to be a few bennies. By the time I get to my door the thought has been tossed back into the pile of worthless wonders and forgotten. Keying in the unlock code, my mind is already on what's waiting for me inside—my sixteen drafts of Operation Twinkle.

Once inside the first thing I do is lose the arm. What a relief. It may help me look more normal, and it even comes in handy with manipulating things, but damn, I hate it. Dropping my jacket and reaching up under my shirt, I wrench open the Velcro with a satisfying rip and unbuckle the straps. The weight of the prosthetic releases and drags itself down through my shirtsleeve. A twist and a tug, and I ease it out of the cuff, stretching the shirt all to hell in the process. Oh well. The shirt has survived worse than that. Rubbing at my shoulder, I turn on my lamp, then settle down on the floor. I rummage the can of brown sugar out of my coat, then toss the jacket aside. Pulling my stack of files closer, I start rifling notes. In minutes I have a ring around me, as I scan from one set of pages to the next, making sure the best of each scenario got transferred to the following draft.

I know it's a long shot. I know Walter thinks I'm crazy. He's great about recognizing the necessity of all this, and helping me figure out the least of all the various evils, but I know he calculates the odds as accurately as I do, and doesn't rate our chance of success very high. With the update I have for him today, he'll knock off a few more points. But I've spent my life playing long shots. I glance down at my empty shirtsleeve, hanging limp and stretched out of shape. My awareness skims over the knotted ache in the upper left side of my back muscles, the deep pain that never completely goes away. The fine itch on the forearm that isn't there.

Long shots don't always pay off. Sometimes they backfire in a big way and you live with the consequences for the rest of your life.

And sometimes they're all you have.

I let my mind play over the thought of the payoff, if this one works out. I've pictured it so many times, practiced it in my head. I see myself coming home to the base, with _her_. She's right next to me, and she's walking, and she's fine. I know that's a flight of fancy, but at that point in the fantasy I usually let her literal condition get fuzzy, and focus more on the fact that she's with me. Alive. And I know right where he is, because I always do, and I walk straight to him. I've played this out in a number of different locations, but my favorite is with him in his room. I open the door and he's on his bed, reading. He looks up and his face gets _that_ look, the one that says "Krycek, what the fuck are you doing coming into my room without knocking, and I'm about to make a smart ass remark that will really piss you off". I've had a lot of practice analyzing Mulder's face and expressions. I know the exact look I mean. And I don't say a word, I just walk in and step aside and there she is... in the doorway behind me. I hold out my hand like "here she is". He looks from me to her, and his face changes, and gets that wonderful soft, open look that he usually only directs at Scully. And then he can't take his eyes off her, and he gets up off the bed and walks across the room and he just _knows_ it's really her, because he's Mulder after all and she _is_ Samantha, and his telepathy is getting better these days for reasons we really don't want to contemplate. He reaches her and pulls her into a hug and maybe he even cries a little, those silent tears, the ones that make it hard for _me_ to swallow, and then he looks at me over her head. Because she's short. Shorter than him at any rate. And he looks at me and he says "thank you, Alex." And his voice is throaty and full, without a hint of sarcasm or sneer. And I nod and I look him right in the eye and I say, "You're welcome, Mulder. Anything for you."

The thunk of knuckles against the door breaks the cycle and I wince. Christ, could I get any _more_ junior high-ish? All I need is a maudlin theme song in the background. I swear I make myself sick sometimes.

I don't bother to get up. Walter can let himself in. He's the only other person who has the code for my little sanctuary. I hear the telltale beeps and push my stupid fantasizing further out of my head, refocusing on the updates for today. Got some important stuff. The door swings and he strolls on in, bowl in hand. A soft sense of wellbeing suffuses me, directly at odds with the discomfort of moments before, and I feel a smile stretching my lips. Even my headache feels like it's lightening up. I realize, somewhat distantly, that the foreign sensation is relaxation... it's like he flips a switch for me, when it's just him and me. Someone to talk to. He's a trapdoor letting me outside of my head for a few minutes.

Which is why I bought him a present. I reach around behind my back and flip him the brown sugar. He catches it and laughs, that full, deep, laugh that I've gotten to like hearing. It's easy to make Walter Skinner laugh, something I never would have guessed when I worked under him. Or maybe he's just gotten better at the sense of humor thing since getting out of government work. I'm inordinately pleased with the reaction to my little gesture.

"Shit." He grins. "You were serious."

I can't resist. I let my expression fall into the familiar lines of innocence that I pull on like a Halloween mask, and easily slip into my ingenuous voice. "Would _I_ lie to you?"

He eyes me with a tolerant expression, a smile still tugging his lips. "And why are you stockpiling brown sugar, may I ask?"

I shrug. "Because you like it," I toss off without thinking. "I picked it up my last time out. Don't hand that around, I could only get the one." I dive back down into work to avoid any further analysis of the question. I've got enough voices in my head poking me over buying presents for Skinner. I don't need him looking at me funny. He looks at me funny way too much lately anyway. We've got business. We don't need to waste time on brown sugar. "So, I've got confirmation that I was right. Minor complication, since we've been expecting it. You know I've been suspicious but now I know for sure. She's bait, it's a trap and that's that. Has to be. When we start hearing tips from three different sources... well, there's just no way they're not setting us up. That's why I've been pulling in so tight. If the word is out there on the street as loose as it seems to be, we can't risk just anybody hearing it and repeating it to Mulder. Or worse, him stumbling over it himself. On the upside, given a conversation I had yesterday with one of the field Rebels, I'm convinced we've got the right quadrant of the building." I lift my eyes from the papers to his face. No reaction to anything I'm saying. He's got that sort of glazed, out to lunch look he had in the cafeteria. I'm starting to get a little concerned. It's not like him. "You hearing me? I just confirmed what you've been saying all along. We're walking into a trap. Earth to Skinner... hello?" Still nothing. I raise my voice. "Are you listening to me? HELLO?"

The extra volume gets him. He shakes his head and blinks. "Hmm? Sorry, I drifted." He sounds about as apologetic as Mulder on a good day. I arch my eyebrows.

"No shit. Where were you?" Cause you sure as hell weren't in this room with me and it's not like you to lose focus when we're talking about important stuff.

He gets the weirdest look on his face. "You don't even want to know," he finally mutters. I tilt my head to one side, ready to argue that assumption. It's not like him to be distracted, and quite frankly I wouldn't mind knowing what's on his mind that is enough to make him this spacey during a strategy session. I study his face, trying to get a clue what's up, something I feel like I'm doing a lot these days. He's been a little off lately, like he's got something to say or like something is bothering him. He doesn't seem out of sorts with me and he snaps right back to normal when I give him a funny look, so I've assumed he's just nerved up about Twinkle. I know I am. This time he meets my gaze and stares right back at me, and I pause.

His expression, his eyes... something... there's heat there. He looks almost angry. My tongue trips over the challenge already forming. Instead, something in my hindbrain sizzles. Something backs away and says 'don't push this, you don't want to touch it'. It falls in the instinct category I've learned to listen to, so I do, without conscious decision. Instead of pushing I shake my head and let my eyebrows arch again. "I'll take your word for that," I say dryly, then drum my fingers on my notes pointedly. "Ready to pay attention now?"

"Just about." He starts eating, gets an incredibly satisfied look on his face, then points at his bowl with his spoon. "First, thanks. What's up with supply runs lately? I've been meaning to ask. Things have been fairly quiet on the outside. Why so cagey this past week?"

I give him a look and mimic the voice he used to excel at in his AD incarnation. " _If_ you're ready to pay attention, that's what I was just _talking_ about." He returns a mock glare that tells me he recognizes the impression, and I duck my head to hide the twitch of my lips. But we really do have serious stuff to cover today, and when I look up at him again I lay it out bluntly. "It _is_ a trap. I got confirmation about six days ago that I didn't come by the Samantha information by accident." The shift in his posture and attention is immediate and drastic.

"Your contact set you up?" He sounds incensed at the very idea and I don't bother telling him it's always a 50/50 gamble when it comes to my contacts.

I shake my head. "No, I think Reinhold is on the up-and-up. As much as he can be." The headache is reasserting itself and I rub at my eyes fruitlessly. Christ, I'm tired. "I think the information is out there in all the 'right' places, because they want it to get back to Mulder. I'm guessing Reinhold came by it, if you'll excuse the expression, honestly enough. I just think somebody was making sure it got out far enough that it couldn't help but reach me. But it wasn't me they were really trying to get it to, surprise surprise. All I can figure is they actually thought I'd tell him." I shake my head in disbelief. I get so used to thinking of them as this monolithic, omnipotent opponent, that I forget how stupid they can be at times. Does anyone really think I'd hand this information to him like some kind of rigged gift? It'd be like giving him an engraved invitation to his own suicide. Or worse. "Apparently, when nothing was immediately forthcoming, when he didn't jump for the bait, when nobody tried for her, they decided to go more obvious."

He blinks, and catches on quick. One of the reasons I like having him around. "You mean... other people—?"

I nod, restating facts now that he's paying attention. "Yep. I've heard about these 'interesting rumors' from three separate people in the last six days." I wonder for a moment if he's going to be pissed that I didn't tell him sooner. Then I wonder why the hell I'm worrying about that. But all he does is stop eating.

"What did you do?" he finally asks.

What I always do. Made sure it wouldn't get back to Mulder. "Two of them weren't a problem. They're in the group that would only bring information like that directly to me, and I brushed them off with a line that it had to be a trap and I wasn't going to be bothered with such obvious bait." I pause. If he's going to give me shit, it's going to be about this one. "Langly, on the other hand, I had to threaten."

"Shit! Alex!"

"It's okay, he expects it from me," I cut in quickly. I shrug and give him the closest I come to an apologetic look, wondering even as I do at the urge to explain myself to him. "I told him in explicit detail what I'd do to him if he dared breathe a word of it to Mulder. Then I gave him the same rundown, that it was obviously a baited trap. I just lied a little more with him and told him I knew for a fact Samantha was dead, so it was even a poorly baited trap. That seemed to do the trick."

He groans, but goes back to his oatmeal, and I don't think he's holding it against me. He knows what a pain Langly can be. Finally he just asks, "You really think he won't say anything to Mulder? That he didn't go to Mulder _first_?"

That makes me want to laugh. Like I haven't been worried about the same thing, but... we'd know already. I have no doubt. I heave a sigh. "I was lucky. I was in the computer room when he was decoding and realized what he had. I was able to short circuit any spill of information but... well, I think we'll know the second he does tell him, if he does. UXB Mulder will shake the ceiling when he finally goes off." And then some. Then, if I need to put him under lock down, I will. But only if I absolutely have to. I'm not risking this. "Just to be safe, I've got an extra team on Mulder though, with direct orders to lock him down if he even _looks_ like he's walking off course."

"So you've been pulling everyone in and stalling everything so it won't spread any further and get back to him."

Resuming the massage of my eyes and the tight muscles at the inner corners, right up onto my forehead, I confirm. "Yeah. Where I can. Which brings us back to brown sugar. Even supplies are a problem right now. The second person to hear the 'rumor' was on a grocery run. Which is why I was saying this complicates things. We can't do shit now until we pull this off, or we risk Mulder finding out and bungling the whole thing, likely getting himself taken in the process. Especially now we know it definitely is a setup _and_ that they're targeting him specifically. Obviously, with a Samantha-setup." I can feel my jaw tighten at the words, and a flash of murderous anger rides through me. They think they can get him away from me that easy? Think again, suckers. "I think it's safe to say that no matter whether we have any idea _why_ they want him so bad, we really don't want to see them get their hands on him," I drawl sarcastically.

Skinner sighs and gets his thoughtful look on. "Okay, so it's no surprise they still want him. You've suspected it right along. We've always been planning for the possibility the Samantha information could be a trap. So, we've got confirmation. Better now than later. So let's do the detail check and go with the trap contingencies."

An intense relief flows through me, and I realize I've been afraid he was going to go into "we can't do this" mode, meaning I'd be back to pulling the gig alone. Instead, he's taking it in stride and being his usual careful and methodical Skinner-self. Walter Skinner, _this_ is why I love you. The joke is forming on my tongue when I realize that for a facetious comment, that one really isn't that funny. We get along a lot better these days but I don't want to push him too far. He's been amazingly nonjudgmental about the whole Mulder thing, but... I've worked with straight men all my life. Knowing a guy is gay is one thing. Having the gay guy make joking flirtatious comments is something else again, and can get the weirdest reactions. I don't really want to piss him off, especially today of all days. We go within the next 24 hours, with or without the Rebels' blessing. So I bite my tongue and settle on a smile instead of a joke.

"Trap contingencies," I lift the red-scrawled pages and fan them on the floor between us. "At least we're 99% sure we've got the right building and the right quadrant. Of course that means we officially need to get through perimeter checkpoints, compound guard post, general on-grounds security, lab sentry, general lab security, and then all the way back out, with her, without blowing the building. Although we can go with a take-no-prisoners approach once we're on our way out. That should be fun."

Walter heaves a sigh. "And we don't know for sure she'll be coming back out with us," he murmurs.

I know he keeps mentioning it to prepare me for the possibility. It's weird, because I'm the one who told him we'd take her out if she was in too bad shape, if she was better off not found. I'm the one who figured I'd have trouble convincing him. But over the last weeks, he's been calmly and quietly reminding me at every turn not to get my hopes up. It's a good reminder. I nod. "But best case scenario, or _hardest_ case scenario should I say, we're exiting the building with an extra passenger, probably carrying."

For the better part of an hour we hammer out the best guesses we can on how different their security will look given they're setting her up as bait. My biggest concern is that she herself is being used as an agent, a vector. She really could literally blow up in our faces. But we'll deal with that when we have her. The Rebels can help us with that, and once we have her in front of them, they'll have to deal for their own good as well as ours. They'll make sure she's not bringing anything we don't want into the rebellion.

Skinner doesn't once try to convince me not to do it. It's pure relief, as much of a relief as the fact that he doesn't give me any shit about not telling him sooner that Samantha-word was spreading. I don't know why I was so worried about that... well, not worried exactly. Okay... worried. It's just I've been telling him so much, I think he's getting used to being in the know. I don't really want him thinking I'm hiding important information from him. Took long enough for him to stop looking at me... that way. Don't really want to go back to it.

We calculate out what we'll need to bring in with us, trying to factor in as much as we can carry without weighing ourselves down too much. We spar back and forth, tossing out "what ifs", coming up with best reactions, even knowing that whatever they throw at us, it'll be what we least expect. I stretch out on the floor to ease my back, and talk to him upside down until he flops down on the floor too, and then we both talk to the ceiling. We recalculate the odds on the three best entrance points we've decided on, and come to the same conclusion we did the last two times and rank them in the same exact order. We're starting to depress each other, one of the definite hazards of planning a classic 'mission impossible'. But I can't let it get a grip on me. I can't accept we're going to fail. I've spent my life surviving the impossible.

Just to end on a less down note, I toss out, "There's always the tried-and-true laundry truck." I tilt my head back, arching my neck, until I can see him where he lays perpendicular to me. His head tilts my way and I grin at his expression. "You know, in all the old movies. Someone is always sneaking in or out of a place in the laundry truck. It always works."

He gives me the exasperated Skinner special, but I see his lips twitch. Mission accomplished. "Alex. Have you been getting enough sleep?"

I can't stop my laugh. I can actually picture us hiding in a heaped laundry cart wheeled by an unsuspecting Colonist. The two of us crouched under a pile of sheets. I probably do need more sleep. Not going to get it anytime soon though... good reminder that I'll need to hit the caffeine pills before the mission. Maybe even something a little stronger. And I need to go talk to the Rebels now. Try to sell this mission one last time. I sigh and roll slightly to my right, then lever myself back into a sitting position. "Okay, enough for today." For now. I turn myself around to face him. "I have to check the latest downloads, make sure I don't have to threaten any more hackers. And you need to double-check the roster and make sure that no one has 'reassigned' himself." I grimace.

"Oh sure," he snarks as he sits, then stands. "You get all the fun and I get all the headaches. When do _I_ get to threaten hackers?"

I have to fight another laugh. Who would have thought our senses of humor would mesh so well. Old training keeps the laugh in, and lets me deliver a perfect deadpan. "You get the next one, promise." I shift and gather my legs under me, rolling up onto my knees so I can reach all the papers. I pull our plans back together and put them back into the folders.

"Promises, promises," he snorts, heading for the door.

"Walt." It's out of my mouth before I realize I'm going to speak. Damn it. I have _got_ to get out of this habit. Every time he goes to leave, I always think of something to say to keep him around just a few minutes longer. Usually my tongue acts independently of my brain. I'm always a little surprised at what I say. Which is no end of annoying.

"Yeah?" He half turns.

I pause, keeping my eyes firmly on the papers I'm piling up as if they're a house of cards. I'm not entirely surprised when what makes it out of my mouth is, "I didn't want to distract you." In my peripheral vision I see him turn the rest of the way around to face me again.

"Say again?"

All right, maybe that was a little obscure. I clear my throat. "If you were wondering. Why I didn't mention the Samantha leaks I've been hearing until now." I finally look up. Six days is a long time to not mention something that big. "I was waiting to see if the leaking was going to be a real problem. I didn't want to distract you with worrying about what Mulder might hear." I know he recognizes the danger as much as I do, and worries about Mulder in his own way. My shoulder lifts in a half-shrug. The discomfort of even acknowledging this urge to explain myself makes me edgy. "I needed at least one of us approaching the problem with a totally clear head. I needed your best strategy." Because I'm scared to death that I'm not thinking real clear on this one. I need... I cut the thought short.

He's just standing there, looking at me. It's one of those careful, steady looks, the kind that I worry about. The kind where I wonder how much he's really seeing. Finally he nods. "I understand." I feel a soft sigh of relief leave me, because I believe him. Because he does. Then I blink as he comes back across the room, stops right in front of me. I look up at him in question. Maybe he's not as okay with it as he seems like he is? He's got that air about him again... he wants to say something.

Suddenly I don't want to be on my knees in front of him. The hair is rising on the back of my neck and I start to stand, slowly, careful of my balance. And even before my first foot is flat on the floor, a hand is before me. Right at eye level. Large, square, strong... safe. I stare at it, waiting for the surge of blistering irritation that always comes when people try to step in and compensate for my handicap.

And wait.

And it doesn't come. This is just... Skinner. Being Skinner. Before I realize I've decided to, I find my hand resting on his, gripping and pressing down and levering myself to my feet, knowing he can take my weight, knowing he'll keep me on balance. Knowing it doesn't change the way he thinks of me. My chin lifts unconsciously and I meet his eyes when I'm fully upright, trying desperately not to show that I'm as surprised as he probably is. It's really not good practice to let someone feel this... comfortable to me. I need to stop.

I release his hand but even as my fingers lift away, his curl up and wrap around mine, strong and tight. What the hell? It's Skinner, so I don't even get my usual jerk back reaction, and then his hand squeezes mine, softly.

The world just took a serious turn for the surreal.

And it's still turning... as his other hand lifts and I stand like a statue just watching as space gets thick and time slows down and then he's touching me, touching my face, my hair, his fingers stroking over my ear, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. My entire body lurches even though I don't move a muscle. Human touch... the warmth, the tenderness... the _need_... rising in me and before I can stop myself I'm pressing my face against that big hand. Feeling the palm cup against me. My eyes slide half-closed and I just want to lean against him and... rest. Safe and warm and accepted. Touched. Connected. To another person. The loneliness wells in me, the ache, so intense, so overwhelming. I can feel exactly what it would be like to take that one step forward, into his arms and rest against his chest and lay my head on his shoulder and lean into him. So solid and strong.

Jesus _fucking_ Christ what the _hell_ just happened? My eyes jerk fully open again and the red alert alarms start screaming in my head and every muscle goes tight. I back up before I can stop myself, out from under his touch at my face and yank my hand out of his. Intense panic chased by confusion swells up from my stomach and engulfs me.

I just almost hugged Walter Skinner.

What the _fuck_ is happening to me? Fear pounds in my veins. This is so much worse than I thought it was. I haven't just gotten comfortable, I've gotten _weak_. It _is_ dependency and I need to get away from him. I need him out of my room right now. Nothing happened. We're men, we're good at that. Nothing happened. "I... ah, I have to get to the computer room. I'll be late and what with that being the way the information 'turned up' last time, I'm concerned. I need to stay right on top of them, they're probably the most unpredictable link we've got right now besides Mulder himself." I'm babbling and I know I am but I can't stop. My hand jerks through my hair, nervous, and I can't stop that either. "If you'll take care of the roster stuff for me, that would be great. I—"

He takes a step backward too, out of my space, and smiles, easy and calm, just Skinner. "I'm on it. Don't give it a second thought. Go threaten your hackers and make sure they understand how important this is." He smiles broader and turns to go, totally unruffled, unaffected. He's good at this 'nothing happened' shit. Good. That's good.

I stand, frozen, as he crosses the room and leaves. For once I have no urge to call him back, to say something that will make him stay for just another few minutes. I need him out of this room. As the door shuts and clicks behind him, my breathing finally starts to slow.

I'm cracking. There's no other word for it. I am so cracking. I hope to hell they're really as close to a powerful vaccine as they think they are. I'll stick this out until we're done or I die, whichever comes first, but I need a vacation. Fast.

* * *

I block it all out easy enough for the next shift of hours that I spend hanging out in Information Central. I can keep myself busy, concentrate on keeping an eye on Langly, monitoring the general state of the compound, watching over John's shoulder as Mulder goes off duty at 0100. I've got him back on duty at 0900 so I'm hoping he'll just go sleep. Problem is, the more boring duty shifts have gotten, the less he sleeps overall. Not to mention the bitchier he gets. I count myself damn lucky he doesn't come to Info Central himself, just goes to get something to eat then disappears into his room.

I take my 0215 meeting with Martell right there in the computer room, getting the latest update from Florida. It's all good news, but most of it we already heard through the distance reports. It's good to have her back anyway, and you never know when an eyewitness account will give you that little something extra that didn't make it onto paper. Or in this case, onto the computer screen.

I even manage to keep everything nice and locked down and stay focused on work when I break from Martell to automatically check that Skinner comes in off perimeter at 0300. And when I note that he's back on duty at 0400 at the east doors. Every minute is taking me closer to another waltz with the Rebels, and I've got enough on my mind coming up with new dance steps.

When Eve and Frohike take over at 0500, I feel one more weight slip off my shoulders. Mulder is already asleep, or at the very least closed up in his room, and Langly is dead tired. I think the stress is getting to the poor boy. I just hope it doesn't throw him in the wrong direction. But either way, I've bought a couple more hours while the two of them sleep.

I probably shouldn't, but I trust Eve more. She's definitely one of their little coterie, and somehow I get the idea her loyalty to Frohike would outweigh any loyalty to me, but she's got a good head and she's nowhere near as much of a blind Mulder-follower. Langly and John leave while Eve and Frohike settle in. I hang around long enough to make sure Langly doesn't go knocking on Mulder's door, then I gather up the notes I made from Martell's report along with the intercepts and my updates. I hit the downloads one last time, taking a few extra minutes to let Eve walk me through them. Nothing I need to include in my reports, so I'm off. By 0525 I'm leaving by the northwest tunnels, then I'm outside and walking in the gray of the early dawn.

And that's when it all springs up and bites me on the ass.

Concentration gone, nothing to do for the next half-hour but walk, my internal panic buttons all go off at once. I almost hugged Walter Skinner. I almost _hugged_ Walter Skinner. _What_ is wrong with me and how can I fix it? Fuck fuck fuck. I know I'm overtired, I know I've been a little off my stride, I know the stress is getting to me but... I _almost hugged Walter Skinner_.

It doesn't help that once I let my mind think about it, I can exactly remember the rush of sensation. The way his touch called to that relaxation I feel around him. The way the old persistent loneliness swept out of control. The overwhelming urge I felt to step into the circle of his strength and just let him hold me. The _need_... the intense need to lean forward and just _rest_. The clear, instantaneous, tactile image I had of how it would feel, and the want. The want to give in to it, to take the comfort.

Hugging. Walter Skinner.

Help.

I obviously _have_ been living underground too long. No joke. First pecans, now hugs. I'm more worn out than I thought. Stretching myself too thin. Holding it together by a thread. Me... big bad tough rebel leader head honcho. Facing down aliens at every turn. Falling apart because someone starts being nice to me.

And finally, fifteen minutes into my walk, my brain does a fast 180 and starts wondering... what the fuck was _he_ thinking?

What was that all about? Helping me up... okay. That's understandable. But what was he doing? Touching me like that? Men just don't do that. I got so weirded out by my reaction, shut it all down so fast, I didn't really look at it from his perspective. What the hell _is_ his perspective?

Am I broadcasting that bad? Am I slipping even more than I think I am? Did I _look_ like I needed a hug? What a humiliating thought. But why would he just up and get all comforting and touchy if he wasn't picking up on something from me? He's already shown himself a little too perceptive. More perceptive than I would have guessed. Shit.

Lost in thought, I'm at the site before I realize it. Shaking myself out of my confusion, I pull out the modified cell phone and punch in the call sequence. Resisting the familiar urge to quip 'beam me up, Scotty,' I wait for the calm inquiry from the other end. "RG-One ready for pick up," I say instead, then punch in my confirmation coordinates and hit 'send'.

"Stand by for contact."

I tuck the phone away and stare up at the sky, waiting for the ripple. Even after all this time, I still never quite catch it. I could wish it lasted a little longer, but I suppose that's dangerous thinking in these times. Even the small pick-up crafts are way too conspicuous nowadays. We don't want them hovering any more than they have to, no matter how far out in the middle of nowhere we are. And I'm closer to home base than I usually am when I have them pick me up.

So as usual, the sky opens and there it is and I didn't even get to enjoy the distortion it creates. I sigh as a panel slides back in the small triangle, and a spill of white light falls over me. I know I just went invisible to the rest of the world and I enjoy both the thought and the sudden weightlessness as I rise up quickly into the ship.

Beam me up Scotty, my ass. They're a lot less showy than the Colonists. More into efficiency. I appreciate that. Once I'm inside the panel slides shut below me and my feet are on solid surface again. The pilot lifts a hand to me, glancing back with sightless eyes.

"Alex." The word sounds loud in my head. Sometimes the Rebels have a hard time adjusting for volume.

"Take me to your leader." I walk forward and drop into the seat next to him, wondering for the countless time why the mutilated ones always seem to be male. They don't really invite questions like that so I've never found out. I stow my bag under the seat and pull the belt straps down over my left side first, then the right, then fasten the lower restraints. He hands me a mask when I'm done and I'm proud of myself—I slip it over my head, down over my nose and mouth, without a pause or even a shudder. I nod once, and he skims his fingers over the controls of the ship. I close my eyes and try to retreat into my head as the crushing force slams me into my seat, the restraints tighten...

Flying in the alien ships is hell on my claustrophobia. At least it clears my head of weird thoughts about hugging Walter Skinner. I work to keep calm in spite of the feel of the mask molding over my face, the belts tight on my limbs, the pressure holding me in the seat more securely than the belts. I can do this. I've done it more times than I can count. Easy. Easy...

The best thing that can be said about alien flight is it's relatively fast. I'm only halfway through a detailed mental calming exercise that involves removing Mulder's clothing one article at a time, starting with his socks, when the pressure eases and then the ship is hovering and I can breathe again. I hear the familiar whirring that means one of the upper bay doors on the larger ship is opening to admit our craft, then barely a jolt as my pilot takes us down and into the docking bay. I wait for his signal before removing the mask and handing it back to him. As I work out of my straps I realize he's watching me. I cock an eyebrow at him.

"You don't like flying." Again, the thought is loud in my head.

I take a closer look at him. I know him but... no, I haven't flown with him before. I guess he wouldn't know. I shake my head shortly but he seems to be waiting for something else. "I've had some bad experiences," I say finally, as I pull my bag back out from under the seat. I don't doubt he knows all about my experiences, as they're probably right there on the surface of my mind. But I'm never entirely sure how much they're picking up telepathically and they never let on. Aside from some vaguely prejudicial attitudes toward humanity in general and some serious ruthlessness when it comes to human Colonists and humans tainted by the tests, they're an oddly polite race.

I follow him to the same panel I got sucked into, and this time when it slides back I just jump out onto the floor below the ship. I breathe easier once out of the little craft, which is just plain silly considering I'm still on an alien ship. But the big ships are like walking around a fucking mall. They just don't ring the same bells for me.

I let my pilot lead me to the conference room even though I could have found it myself after all the times I've been here. Doesn't hurt to return their politeness. Entering, I find most everyone already present. I nod as I find my seat and open the buckles on my canvas bag, lifting the top and pulling out my notes as they toss greetings at me from around the table. I see more of them are experimenting with the 'waving hello' gesture. I lift my hand in acknowledgement. Cultural exchanges can get downright hilarious with this group. The upper echelons are all duly fascinated with humans and our eccentric ways. In deference to me, most of them switch to human language even if what they're saying doesn't directly concern me. I sit and listen to the myriad conversations, responding when someone speaks to me, but mostly just soaking it in.

Eventually a door on the other side of the room slides back and Madame walks in. I don't know her name... I don't know that they have names, exactly. The way we think of names anyway. They certainly think about individuality differently than we do. But I think of her as Madame, and I even call her that to her face. When she asked for clarification I told her it was an honorific. It is. It just suits her manner.

She sits, and it must be her we've been waiting for even though other chairs are empty, because all of a sudden all conversation cuts off and everyone pulls up to the table. "Alex," she speaks to me and lifts her hand in a wave at the same time. I can't hold back a smile as I lift my hand back to her. "You have reports. As do we. And then you will... press your suit."

I sigh inwardly. That pause doesn't bode well. They know what I'm going to try for all over again. I've been harping on it in every meeting for the last three weeks, and I went full out yesterday. Something about the way she says it tells me they're going to remain immovable.

I pass on the pertinent pieces of Martell's report first, knowing they've wanted in-person, first hand accounts of the Florida situation. Sweeping Florida nursing homes from the north border straight down to the Keys is no small project. They ask a number of questions. From there I give them the brief version of the downloads from around the country and Canada, and confirm we're all on the same page with South America and overseas. We spend a long time tossing around observations on the recent inactivity of the Colonists. They don't trust it anymore than I do.

Finally, I turn the topic to the vaccine. "Any progress?" I know they would have contacted me if they'd had any real breakthrough in the less than 24-hours since we last met, but I'm curious where they do stand.

Madame makes a sound that could be a sigh. "We are so close. But we cannot say any better today what the hour will be."

I nod, biting back disappointment. That doesn't bode well either. If I could make it part of a full-out offensive on the main base, they wouldn't care if I brought Samantha out. But no full-out offensive allowed on main base until the vaccine is a definite. I get a sinking feeling in my chest, but it's really no more than I expected. Time for me to 'press my suit' anyway. I look around the table, searching for any one of them who might possibly waver, but they just don't think like we do.

I can't even bother to re-pitch the arguments.

I sit in silence for a good minute, then finally meet Madame's eyes. "We go tonight. Myself, and one other. We'll do our best to bring her out or... we'll terminate if need be."

Madame inclines her head once, and an odd expression crosses her face. "We would convince you to not follow this course." She makes that sighing noise again. "We know you are decided." I nod. Looks are exchanged around the table. She speaks again, even more earnestly. "There is nothing we can say to convince you? We approve of you, Alex. We approve of your work and your success ratios. We would not wish to—" The pause hangs. Finally... "Lose you."

I have to smile. For them, that's really saying something. "I'm not partial to losing myself either. Or my—" My what? How to refer to Skinner. "My partner in this venture. But we don't have a choice. All my intelligence says this really is Samantha Mulder. Your intelligence is saying the same thing. Time has become too much of a factor. We have to go tonight... we can't wait any longer for the vaccine. We go tonight or Mulder finds out. I can't keep everyone at the base under lock and key indefinitely, and there's just too much Samantha-information in the air right now. Mulder _is_ going to hear, it's just a matter of when. We've been lucky to keep it from him this long, but we're stretching our luck. They obviously want him to hear, and They will get their way."

She shakes her head, and I find myself thinking that she's definitely got that 'human impatience' down. "So he hears of this." She makes a sideways gesture with her hand that I don't immediately translate, but I have a general idea what she means. They could care less if Mulder hears Samantha is alive.

I close my eyes for a moment and fight to keep my temper. I know better than to take it personally but it's damn hard when it's him. I open my eyes and speak precisely. "He hears, and we have disaster, plain and simple. He hears, he goes after her. There _is_ no other conceivable result. I keep explaining, you keep not listening. He goes after her, he gets himself killed or taken. My bet? Taken. You know They want him. We don't even know for sure _why_ , but you _know_ he's important to Them and you still just want to let Them have him?"

She lifts one shoulder gracefully. "We would ascertain why he is so important to Them, but you will not give him to us."

My hand comes down hard on the tabletop in a loud smack before I can stop it. "NOT an option," I snap. My palm smarts.

She inclines her head. "Just so. You will not give him to us, we cannot determine his exact importance to the Colonists."

"But you'd still just let Them have him? He _will_ go after her. They're baiting him and he's going to snap it up."

"We would remove him from the equation. Permanently. We have bent our consideration of this matter to your will in acknowledging that is not an option either. Therefore our best recommendation is that if he hears, you control him. Complete your... lockdown, as you say."

I bark out a laugh. I have to. It's either laugh or cry. Talk about not an option. "You don't _know_ Mulder, you've only heard of him. Lockdown." I sigh. "Do you _want_ to make my life a living hell? More of one than it is? I'm not willing to even attempt to lock him down for more than a short stretch of time, and then _only_ if absolutely necessary to keep him out of our hair long enough for us to get her out. Besides, he hears about Samantha, hears any of the information we've been getting, and lockdown won't hold him for long. End result is the same. You don't help us get Samantha Mulder _out_ , and the Colonists end up with two Mulders in their hands sooner rather than later."

She shakes her head again, but this time it doesn't look like impatience. "One human woman, Alex. She is tainted. Terribly tainted. This we know. You agree. They have had her too long. We cannot expend resources for one tainted human. We would ask you not to, as well."

My teeth grind together and I know I'm saying the same damn things that never worked before but I can't help myself. "I'm not asking you to expend resources for _her_. I'm asking you to expend resources to keep _him_ out of Their hands which should be as important to you as it is to me. And you don't want to lose me? Then help me do this, help me do this _now_. Listen to me, because I _know_ what I'm talking about. We do this, and we do it right, or we lose him to Them." Why can't they see?

Speaking looks flash around the table. Even from the ones with no eyes. Finally, the Rebel two seats to the left of Madame speaks. "He is tainted as well." His shoulder lifts in the same one-sided shrug hers did. In a surreal moment I realize that their shrugs look weird because my shrug looks weird. They've been incorporating the human gestures of an one-armed man. It's got nothing to do with anything, but it's all my tired brain wants to process because thinking about what I'm hearing is too damn painful. 'He is tainted as well.' Easy for them to say.

But that's the point, isn't it. It is easy for them to say. Their solution is easy and logical and I can't deny that. I can try all I want to convince them that it's in their interest to keep Mulder out of Colonist hands. They know that already. But rather than risk losing their leader of the human forces of the rebellion on a fool's mission, their solution would be to simply remove Mulder from the equation.

My head dips. I lift my hand and rub my eyes tiredly.

Not an option.

They know me well enough to know that and in a way, I understand. They are bending. They are giving in to me already, simply by _not_ removing him, which they see as the obvious smarter option. I don't assume his continued existence is all about me... I have no doubt they're hedging their bets based on the fact that they don't fully understand why he is so important to the Colonists either. But without me standing directly between him and them, it's certainly possible Mulder would have met with a Rebellious accident by now. They have a skewed view of his vaunted 'importance', but they've been willing to defer to me on this. Even to the point of not stopping me from walking off to commit suicide getting his sister, probably because they know they couldn't. But they won't bend to help me do it.

Because he's tainted.

In the stretching silence a soft voice speaks from behind me, somewhere to my right. "I would argue your position on taint is foolish and outdated. Emotional even. But then, you know my thoughts on the matter as well as you know Mr. Krycek's."

My head lifts and I swivel in my seat, rising immediately when my eyes confirm my ears. "Mr. Smith," and I can't contain the grin that stretches my mouth as Jeremiah comes forward, looking so much more human than any of the Rebels, despite the fact that he is as alien as they are. I reach to shake his hand and find I'd like to throw my arm around him. Christ, this hugging thing is getting out of hand. Get the urge once and suddenly you want to hug everyone. But I forgive myself because it's been a while since I've seen him. "Where the hell have you been?"

He grips my hand tightly, and I like to think he's glad to see me too. "Here and there. Working."

I shake my head, laughing. "That's an Alex-answer, Mr. Smith."

His thin lips turn up in an answering smile. "Working with you was educational. I have not forgotten."

So the old boy did miss me. It pleases me more than it should and I think again that this growing camaraderie with Skinner is poisoning me. Weakening me. Making me soft. Because all I can think about is the time I drove from Idaho to Oregon with Jeremiah and his fascination with human music. _All_ kinds. He'd recently discovered Willie Nelson. It was a lot of miles with the old Outlaw.

"You will rescue Samantha Mulder?" His calm eyes stare into mine, his expression unwavering, full of steady belief.

I nod. "Tonight."

He nods, releases my hand at last, and turns to the table. His singular presence makes me feel better, even though I know it's a lost cause. He always thought highly of Mulder. He'll speak in my favor. He won't get any further than I did, but he'll try and I appreciate that.

"You work with me," he states flatly, looking around at each Rebel in turn. "You overlook my 'taint' in favor of our common goals and my skills. You know of what Mr. Mulder does for our cause, and has done for years. You listen to Alex confirm our own suspicions of the Colonist interest in Fox Mulder. Yet you brush it all off the table with the simple statement that 'he is tainted'?"

Madame lifts one hand. "We will not take Fox Mulder against Alex's will. We will not neutralize the threat he may present. We will not prevent Alex from attempting this... rescue of Samantha Mulder. But that is as far as we can go. We wish you success, Alex, though we cannot assist directly. We will not move to prevent you." She pauses, and I see a look flash between her and Jeremiah. Her eyes shift back to me and the pause lingers, then finally she speaks again. "Understand this, Alex. Whatever happens, Fox Mulder will not be taken into Colonist hands." Her words sound like an apology.

I feel like I swallowed a rock. And it's sitting, getting heavier by the second, in my stomach. I know what she's saying. If I fail, nothing stands between the Rebels and Mulder.

"You are making a significant mistake," Jeremiah states, his voice not rising at all. "Fox Mulder deserves our assistance in this matter. Alex deserves our assistance."

"We have thought long on the issues. We are decided."

I lean forward and pick up my notes, tuck everything back into my bag, swing it up over my shoulder. I lift my hand to his shoulder where he stands, still looking directly at Madame as if he could convince her through sheer willpower. Finally he turns to me. "Thank you," I say softly. "I need to be getting back to the base soon. I'd like to talk to you before I leave."

Nodding, he glances around the assemblage one more time, then nods to Madame. "We'll speak again."

"Contact me if you need me," I tell her. "I'll be in touch, or... well, I'll leave word to contact you if things go badly."

She stands. "Your pilot will be waiting for you when you are ready to depart. Before you leave the ship, consult with Munitions. Ascertain you have everything you require."

A nice offer. I know the subtle wording means they'll give me anything I want from their weapons. I won't turn down the opportunity to raid the store. We've got their technology back at base, but they're forever refining their tools. "And the Vaccine Research? Mind if I 'consult' there as well?"

"Of course. As long as it does not impede research progress, whatever you require."

"Thank you." I leave the conference room with a final nod. Outside the door I give Jeremiah a half smile. "I appreciate the support, but we weren't going to get anywhere. I'd rather run my plans by you, get your take."

"Certainly. Though I will continue to try to sway them, I cannot promise anything before this evening. And I at least understand why time is of the essence." He turns and gives me one of his sad smiles. "I have met Mr. Mulder, as you know."

I stifle the laugh that wants to rise. "Would you agree lockdown isn't exactly the best bet?" He gives me a speaking look and I snort as the laugh wants to bubble up again. I follow him through a maze of corridors to a room he's obviously been given as his own, reminding me of my own days living on this floating hotel. Once inside, I lay out Operation Twinkle in detail. Where we plan to enter, how we expect to deal with each set of guards, how we'll get to her, then get her out. He listens closely, taking it all in, offering his particular brand of insight on the Enemy. As usual, I find him incredibly calming to talk to. There's just something about him, in spite of his intensity.

"You have factors in your favor," he murmurs when I wind down. "The general arrogance of the Colonists always works in our favor. Second, and more important, they are expecting Fox Mulder. They believe this gives them an advantage. You know they can Sense him."

I can hear the capital S. It isn't really a question, but I confirm anyway. Just one of the long list of reasons I worry about Mulder. "Why they think I'd let him know about this, I don't know, but I'm going to take advantage of it."

He smiles gently. "I do not believe they understand the amount of control you exercise over the Rebellion. They assume Mr. Mulder will simply hear of their 'information slips' about his sister, and will come for her. I do not believe they would ever assume someone else would try to get her _for_ him." He tilts his head and gives me a long look. "Safe to say I don't believe they understand you." His smile widens. "Not an uncommon occurrence."

I give him an exasperated look. "Anyway," I nudge him back on topic pointedly.

He sits back with an easy shrug. He gets it right. Of course he's been living among humans and passing as one for a lot of years. "Anyway. Take whatever old samples of the vaccine they'll let you have. They're close enough now, it shouldn't matter. It's not perfect but it will get you through the guards. With your knowledge of weapons I'm sure you already have some ideas about method of delivery." He lifts an eyebrow in question and I nod. "As long as you can keep Mr. Mulder out of the event's unfolding..." he spreads his hands.

"If I have to handcuff him myself."

"You may have to." He sits in silence, and I can see he's going back over my plans in his head. "I believe your limited strike force is an excellent choice. Harder to get her out, perhaps, but easier to get in. And once in, I trust you to get yourself back out. You have a second you trust?"

"Yes." The affirmative is out almost before my brain finishes processing his question. The way it just trips off my tongue stirs my uneasiness again but... it's true. Skinner's solid. My bones say so.

He looks surprised, and pleased, by my response. "Excellent. That is good to hear."

I don't want a longer conversation on the subject. Not with this man. "What do you think this means? This sudden Samantha trap."

"My studied opinion? They're getting desperate. I believe it's a good sign, Alex. And I believe you're playing it right. I could only wish our allies were being a bit more actively supportive."

"Will you help me? After I get her out. Help me make sure she's not a Trojan horse."

"Of course. Bring her to me."

"Thank you." I pause, but it has to be said. "And if things go wrong, if I don't make it out... they need to work with Mulder. You know they do."

He spreads his hands again. "I will do my best, Alex. Mr. Mulder will take over the human contingent of the resistance. I do not believe it will be as easy as our erstwhile allies assume to 'remove him from the equation'. In any case, I will have a frank discussion with Mr. Mulder myself."

I find myself really glad he's back. Before I realize, I'm saying it out loud. "It's really good to see you. To have you here."

That serene smile again. "I had a sense it was time to make a return visit."

Reluctantly, I stand. "I should be moving. I have to be getting back, and I still have a couple stops to make."

He stands as well, nodding. "I'm sorry we can't talk longer, but perhaps... after."

"Yes. After I get her out." He nods again at my firm tone. I think he really believes I can do this. "I'm sorry I can't stay longer as well, but I'm keeping a closer grip on the base at the moment. We've been so inactive it's been hard. I want to keep the leash tight."

"I understand." He walks me to his door and out. "I'll follow along on your other stops." We head for Research first, and I let myself enjoy his company for the short while longer it takes to hit there, and Munitions. He even walks me out to the bays for my ride home, speaking familiarly with my pilot. He shakes my hand again, grips my shoulder. "Best of luck, Alex. What you do is necessary and right. Take strength from that."

I smile. Jeremiah always did strike me as a more moral soul than myself. I hesitate to tell him I take my strength from the thought of Mulder, and his reaction. Besides, he's probably already guessed. "See you when I'm out of there, with her."

"Indeed. See you then."

I climb up into the small ship and get back into the seat next to the pilot, stowing my bag again, bulging with the extras they've given me. I struggle with the straps, accept the mask and place it over my face as the ship starts to hum and vibrate. Here we go again. The pilot thinks reassuring thoughts at me, and we're off.

This time I think about Jeremiah as we speed away from the big ship, back toward home. Home... there's a funny thought. That hole in the ground. More of a home than most others have been I guess. I breathe carefully and keep my eyes closed, letting my mind pick over Jeremiah's encouragement, his belief he'll see me again, with Samantha safe and sound. Well, with Samantha. Before I know it I'm back in my fantasy from earlier, presenting her to Mulder. And then the pressure eases suddenly and we're hovering. Can always count on Mulder to make me lose track of time.

I open my eyes, remove the mask and straps, dig out my bag. Thanking my pilot, I move to the back of the ship and position myself on the correct panel. I have to admit I love this part. The air doesn't feel different from one minute to the next, but the panel beneath my feet suddenly retracts and I'm hanging in midair for a few seconds before I'm slowly lowered down and out, back to the ground. When my feet touch earth, I look up with a quick salute. The panel is already sliding shut, the sky ripples and instantly the ship is gone.

I check my watch and review the roster in my mind. Given the hour and my return coordinates, I'm on schedule. I start back home, mentally calculating the best path to put me in at the North Doors, where I want to reenter the compound. I use the walking time to go over the rest of my day, and consistently squelch the niggling thoughts about Skinner every time they rise. It keeps my mind occupied and before I know it I'm closing in on the base's north entrance.

I stride up to the recessed doors, knowing my arrival has already been broadcast to Mulder and his partner of the moment. I don't expect a welcome, and I don't get one. They're following orders and letting me key in from the outside. I tap the code into the pad set into the door, and I'm through into the antechamber. My eyes drift automatically to the next door. He's just on the other side. I can already practically feel him. I thought constant exposure would inure me, eventually. It hasn't. My mouth is slightly dry and it has nothing to do with my long walk. I step up to the retina scanner and wait while the light skims over my eyes, identifying me and, thanks to a few Rebel modifications, ensuring I'm still me at the same time. The inner door releases with a click, and I walk to it as it slides back.

And there he is.

Lower lip thrust out along with his hips, leaning against the wall... all lanky elegance even in battered, faded fatigues. My eyes are devouring him head to toe before I can resist, my entire being coming alive and bending, arching toward him. But even as I drink him in, my peripheral vision catalogues Anthony confirming my arrival back to Info Central, and the unexpected third presence. Walter. Walter? Instantly alert, I yank back the reins on my fetish and turn to the silent figure standing beside Mulder. Despite my unsettled reactions to the embarrassing almost-hug incident, once again I find just seeing him calls up that automatic sense of ease in me. Going fucking soft. No doubt about it. "Hey Skinner... what's up?"

"I was just killing some time. But since I'm running into you anyway..." He sorts through the small stack of folders he carries, selects one and hands it off to me. "This could use your attention as soon as you can get to it." He gives me a look that says he knows the last thing I need is one more thing on my plate, but it can't be helped. I appreciate the thought and bite back a sigh.

"Okay." I flip it open even as I take it from him, wondering what's come up since I left. My eyes drop instantly and take in the bold, square writing on the paper sitting on top of everything else in the folder.

'Meet me in outer space. 11:15. —W.'

My mind slips over into high gear even as I shut all expression away. Shit. Something sensitive, obviously. Something Twinkle-related? What's happened now. Mulder isn't screaming at me yet, or bouncing my head off the wall, so he can't have heard anything. The Gunmen? More Sam-slips in the downloads? What? Keeping my face neutral is second nature and I close the folder without any reaction. I look up and catch his gaze, but his eyes aren't giving anything away either. "I'll get right on it," I assure him. "I just need to check in with Rhodes," I add, doing a quick mental calculation on whether or not I can make it to my star-room within a half-hour.

He nods his understanding and turns to go with a brief goodbye to Anthony and Mulder. My mind follows him, and Mulder's voice jars me out of contemplating if it wouldn't be better for my peace of mind to just delay my check in and find out what Skinner's got for me right now.

"So what's up with all the restraint, Krycek? I thought you were just playing your little control games with me again, but looks like you're not letting any of the teams out of the hole at the moment."

I blink and refocus on Mulder. Always a pleasure, even when he's sniping. His words finally penetrate, and the bone-deep tiredness I woke up with re-surges. I really don't want to go another fifteen rounds with him over this. I know I could cut it short by just walking off, telling him I'm late for a meeting and I don't have time and we can discuss it later. Instead, I hear my own voice saying, "You know we're waiting on the Rebels, Mulder."

Hand him an engraved invitation to debate why don't you, Alex? And I said Skinner was predictable.

"Yeah, but I never know if that just happens to be the line you're selling at the moment, or if it's really the whole story," he drawls, still lounging against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. I see the spark fire up in his eyes. Sometimes I swear arguing with me is the high point of his day.

I suddenly realize just how ludicrous that sounds, coming from me. Like I should talk. Me, who invites the argument just to have an excuse to stand here inside his space and breathe him in. I've gotten so good at not rising to the bait though. Not that it improves the situation, exactly. He just keeps verbally swinging. But I promised myself... when he came in on the rebellion. When he agreed to work with me. I promised myself I could play things differently. With him.

In my more depressed moments, I end up wondering if it's only made things worse. My restraint certainly hasn't dulled his tongue in dealing with me.

I ignore the embedded personal jibe, and answer the ostensible question. "When I get the okay, you'll be the first to know. Right now they don't want us taking any unnecessary chances when they're this close to tipping the balance with the vaccine." It's a reasonable lie. At least a grain of truth to it. "They want full strength for the big push and they don't want anything tipping off the Enemy. Especially considering how quiet the front has been, and how concerned that's making them." Even more truth there... just a tiny lie of omission. I deepen my breathing slowly, and hopefully imperceptibly, drawing in the scent of him.

"Although I can't help but notice that even with everyone else pulled in, you're still out there wandering around on a whim. Alone." He waves one elegant hand expansively, and my eyes follow his fingers. Storing images for... later.

I let one eyebrow arch. It always comes back to this. The one thing I _can't_ change for him—I can do things he can't. I call the shots and I get to tell him what he can and can't do. Authority was never his strong suit, and authority with my name on it... ouch. With a sigh, I feel a familiar wave of empathy for Skinner, supervising Mulder as long as he did. "Hardly on a whim," I offer simply, completely sidestepping the real issue, the one that rankles him the most, endlessly. I really _don't_ have time to get into that with him again today, no matter how bittersweet facing off with him is. And besides, my dick is getting hard already. Time to retreat. "I go out when I have to. But we're all staying under wraps until further notice from the Rebels." Thoughts of what Skinner has to tell me percolate up through my careful façade. The thin folder feels heavy in my hand. My imagination is starting to get the better of me. "I have to go check in with Rhodes." I force myself to move, start walking, or I'll just stand there under the hypnotic spell that is Mulder.

"Thanks for that enlightening update, oh fearless leader," he calls from behind me.

"Anytime," I call back without turning, and just keep walking. One look back and it's all downhill from there. I obviously haven't jerked off recently enough. I count back in my head and realize it's been at least a week. I've been busy. And tired. I'm just tired all the time these days.

I find Rhodes right where he's supposed to be, and listen to him with most of my attention. I wake up when he mentions the team that was late off perimeter, but relax when I realize he's just making the point I already know... people are restless. I nod and we spend a minute discussing options for working out some nerves. I can't say what I know... that by tomorrow it won't be a problem. One way or the other, we'll be gearing back up for strikes by tomorrow.

I manage to hustle along the report when he seems to catch on that I'm in a hurry. I ask him to keep an eye on things for a little while longer, then make a quick detour to hit up Eve for anything I need to know. She runs me through the intercepts they've made since I left, and I'm off to my room. My mind clicks over each potential problem. Given the decidedly uneventful reports from Rhodes and Eve, it can't be anything too big, can it?

Can it?

Preoccupied, I reach my door and key in the code, pushing it back and entering quickly, letting it bounce closed behind me. A prescient shudder goes through me. The room... it's wrong... too dark... Already wired, my instincts snap into overdrive. The hair rises on the back of my neck. Something's off—

I realize someone is behind me in the dark at the same instant the weight of a hand lands on my left shoulder. It throws me into reflex reaction and my right elbow jerks back, connecting solidly with a stomach. I whirl with the momentum and kick out with my left leg, taking my uninvited guest behind the knees and sending him to the floor. My first thought is to wonder if he did anything to Walter.

My second thought, as I stare down at Walter flat on the floor, fighting for air, is that yes indeed, I really truly need that vacation.

"Fuck! Walter!" I drop to my knees, feeling like an absolute idiot. Hair-triggered I've always been, but Jesus Christ. I can't believe I just took out the one person I've been thinking of as a friend lately. That'll teach him to be nice to me. I drop the folder and grab his arm, helping him up into a sitting position. I massage the center of his back, trying to help him get his breath back. "I'm sorry!" Fuck. Obviously the inactivity is getting to me too. I can't believe... I even knew he was going to be in the room! How stupid can I get? "Are you okay? I didn't... I mean..." I don't even know what I'm trying to say, so I just stop.

He laughs, actually laughs, and gives me the old exasperated look. "Who the hell did you think it was? I'm the one who asked to meet you here."

His words mirroring my thoughts make me feel even stupider, and I feel heat rush to my cheeks. "I—I know, I'm sorry. I just, I didn't... the room, it seemed off and—"

He just laughs again. At least he doesn't seem mad. "Alex, stop. I know, I know. I should know better than to touch you from behind without identifying myself. I just sort of figured you'd be less hair-triggered coming into your own room when I _asked_ you to meet me here. I suppose it's my fault though..." He stops whatever he was about to say, and gestures to the room at large.

I blink, not sure what he means, then look up to see what he's pointing to. That he's taking the blame for me attacking him is weird enough, but what...

Holy shit.

Looking around, I blink again. No wonder the room felt off.

The weird diffuse light is coming from candles. Candles. There are candles in my room. Why are there candles in my room? I didn't put them there. I stare stupidly around the room at the sporadic ring of glowing, flickering lights. Candles in holders standing straight and candles in glasses leaning askew. Shadows dance on the walls and elongated circles of weak, wavering light spill out toward the center of the room.

"Sorry about the dark," he's saying, and I hear him as if from a distance. "I knocked over the lamp. I'm sorry. I'll get you another one."

I look toward where my lamp used to sit. The flickering light plays over a jumble of broken glass. "You broke my lamp?" Sound a little more idiotic, Alex. I just don't... understand. I suddenly feel like I'm standing in really deep water and the sand under my feet is shifting, sucking out from under me with the tide.

"I didn't mean to. I tripped over it."

Oh. Well. That's understandable. It happens. And then fingers are touching my cheek, stroking so softly, down over my face, under my chin, tightening, and my face is moving with his grip until I'm looking at him instead of a broken lamp. Him, sitting on the floor in my room, in candlelight, touching my face. The sand shifts a little more and my footing slides dangerously. That warmth again, that touch, and I don't understand...

"Alex." His voice is so soft and so deep. Reaching right inside of me to the staggering confusion and asking for its attention, demanding its attention. All I can do is meet his eyes. "Alex, I know this may look a little... odd. It's not what it looks like." He pauses. What it looks like? What? What does it look like? What does _what_ look like? That he broke my lamp? While my mind fumbles, he continues roughly. "Okay, that's not right either. It sort of is what it looks like. Earlier... what happened. It was kind of sudden. I think it took you by surprise."

Earlier? Sudden? Surprise? I have to wrench my mind, trying to wrap it around what he's talking about. It's almost painful. I'm totally lost, and it's not a comfortable feeling. In fact, it's a feeling I hate. He's touching me again and he's talking about earlier... oh! Oh. Earlier. When he touched me before. When I almost hugged him. Does he know I almost hugged him? Does he think I'm losing my edge? Why is he touching me again? He's still talking and I fight the urge to clamp my hand over his mouth, to stop the sound, the words. The prickling sensation is back... the unease... the sense that I want him to stop talking, that I don't want to hear what he's going to say, that something is so off, and it's more than a broken lamp and some candles. But he just keeps going, in that rough but gentle voice, the words spilling into the room as warm as the glow of the candlelight. His eyes hold mine and won't let go and I just spin along for the ride.

"Hell, in a way it took me by surprise, though I have been... thinking about it. I mean in a general sense. But I asked to meet you here because I wanted to talk about it. I don't want to just back away and pretend nothing happened. I want to talk to you about... how things are. Now. Get it out on the table so we can work with it or around it, but so we don't have to ignore it like the invisible elephant in the room." He stops for breath then pushes on. I can only listen in stupefied silence, trying to absorb the words, trying to grasp the meaning. How things are? Invisible elephants? The one thing that makes it through loud and clear is that he doesn't want to pretend nothing happened. But we're good at that, Skinner. My brain hurts and his hand is still cupping my face so tenderly and my reality is bending. And he wants to talk about it.

"I wasn't trying to push you. Before. I just reacted spontaneously," he explains, explaining nothing. His eyes are so earnest, almost pleading with me, and I _want_ to understand, despite that shivery dread chasing up and down my spine, but I just don't. "Some things that have been building just sort of spilled out," he continues. "Working with you these past months... things are... sort of... different. At least they are for me. A lot different. I thought... maybe... maybe for you too. It's okay if they're not, I'm not asking for anything you don't want to give, or have, or... well. I'm just... tired of not talking about it, not trying. What I mean is—" He stops short, and his face changes. A look of intense frustration washes over it and I think that he looks about like I feel. Then without warning his fingers tighten, biting into my jawbone, drawing me forward and tilting my head with his strength. "What I mean is... this." The warm breath of his words fans across my mouth and then he...

The tide sucks, the sand slides completely, my feet slip, I go underwater. Confusion is like a wave hitting me in the back of the head, knocking me flat and stealing my breath and I can't even scream. There are lips on mine and I'm being kissed... kissed... _kissed_. I can't breathe, I can barely gasp my shock and there's a _tongue_ in my mouth and oh—

Oh... wow...

It's been... so... long.

His mouth savages mine and I can't even be bothered to swim for the surface. It's just what I love... what I need... that edge of control, edge of roughness... not asking, _taking_. Fresh from the MulderTease I gave myself, my dick snaps to attention and sits up to beg. I sway against him, my hand on his back clenching in the material of his shirt. Fingers cradle my jaw and more fingers burrow into my hair and between his two hands I'm caught, held, can't move my head even if I wanted to and the pure _charge_ I get off that flows straight to my crotch and he's touching... touching me. His grip leaves my chin to stroke my throat. His fingers are strong and probing, his thumb moving down under the collar of my shirt to rub the hollow at the base of my throat and the sheer vulnerability of it makes my insides go liquid and where the fuck did he get an illustrated guide to my kinks? His fingers trace back up to my ear and twist my earlobe and I'm still being devoured and I still can't breathe and... fuck me... Walter Skinner can _kiss_.

Walter Skinner can kiss?

Walter Skinner is _straight_.

Isn't he?

Last time I checked straight men didn't kiss like this...

I gasp for air when his tongue pulls back and his teeth scrape deliciously at my lower lip. He slowly releases my lip and then his hands aren't gripping my head anymore. They aren't holding me in place to take what he wants, and I'm not sure what to feel about that, because I'm confused but _damn_ it felt good and it's been so long but this is all just too fucking weird for words. And now his hands are resting so gentle, so light, on either side of my face and it's so... so...

Something wrenches, hard, in my chest. The loneliness rears up to grip me in its clutches again, just like this morning. The strength of a simple human touch, breaking through weakening walls like they aren't even there and he's smiling... _smiling_. He's just kissed me stupid and he looks incredibly pleased with himself.

"Yes. Yes, that's exactly what I mean," he murmurs in a low, sexy voice, nodding decisively.

My world tilts. Walter Skinner is _straight_ , a panicked little voice in the back of my head is still screaming. Which is pretty much directly at odds with the Walter Skinner who just had his tongue down my throat. My brain throws the two perceptions up against each other, and it doesn't take much to see which one starts to crumble. _Skinner_? Into men? Am I that fucking blind?

Obviously I am.

But I never... I didn't... I had no clue. Not even a hint. And in that instant, kneeling on the floor staring at a smiling Walter holding my face so gently in his big hands, everything takes a quarter turn to the left and clicks into place.

All the nonsensical things he just said. All his strange looks, his odd silences, of the past weeks. The nagging sense that he had something he wasn't saying. The premonition of unease. The way he listens to me now, his changing attitude toward me. Touching me... this morning... invisible elephant... the candles. Things have been building, he said. Things are different, he said. I feel my mouth fall open in total shock. Again.

Walter Skinner. Developing... something... some feeling... for me. _Me_.

Walter Skinner. Seriously coming on to me.

And they call me an intelligence agent?

I feel like the dumbest, most oblivious person alive. As my brain finally turns over and starts functioning, it all seems so clear. Blazingly obvious even. As alien an idea as the Rebels themselves, but obvious nonetheless. Making me so totally and completely clueless that it's downright embarrassing. I manage to close my mouth with an effort, suddenly very glad I'm on my knees, since if I was standing, I'd have undoubtedly fallen over by now.

And he's staring at me and he's touching me and he just fucking _kissed_ the living hell out of me and I need to _say_ something and now would be good, Alex. "Skinner," I croak, and immediately realize how odd that sounds after what just transpired. He's not Mulder, after all. I shy away from _that_ thought like a horse seeing a snake and try again. "Walter." Better. "I... I don't understand." That's an understatement. I try to get my brain more engaged but my tongue is walking away on its own. "Earlier I didn't... it was so—I just—" I stop again. What am I going to say? I thought you thought I needed a hug? I didn't realize it was one of _those_ kinds of touches? I thought you were straight? I can't think of anything to say that won't make me look even more moronic than I already do. "I—you..." Just spit out _something_ , Alex. "You and... and me?" My voice cracks embarrassingly on the final word.

"If you want," he answers immediately, and he sounds so sincere, and his eyes are so soft, so close.

If I want? If _I_ want? "Why?" My voice cracks again as the word leaps out of my mouth and I flush.

"Because I'd like to," he says simply. "Because you're different, you've changed. Or maybe you're the same and I'm different, or something. Because I understand better. Or at least I think I do. I'm tired of _thinking_ all this, and not saying any of it, and watching you and just... waiting. Alex, if _you_ want, if you're... interested... and I know it's complicated, but... I just wanted to make the offer." He pauses. "Make myself clear."

And he's so fucking sincere. As surreal as it all is, I can't doubt he means what he's saying. Shooting my final theory that maybe this is some warped joke. "You're serious," I whisper, and I can hear the disbelief in my own voice. "But you don't even like me..."

He laughs. And his face is so genuinely happy as he says, "I like who you are these days, Alex. I like what you're trying to do. Actions always did speak louder than words with me. I may not always agree with the way you do it, but like I said, I think maybe I understand better. And as you probably know better than most, I'm particularly well-suited to understand where you used to be. I'm hardly pure as the driven snow, _Clark_." He shoots me one of those loaded looks.

My head spins. This just keeps getting more unreal. I mean I know I've been feeling like he understood, or that he's been trying to understand, that he's been more accepting of me. But here he is telling me he not only understands, he... _understands_. And... likes me. Me. I've just never even thought of him that way and here he is, telling me he... wants me. That he likes who I am. I can't control the burst of pride that explodes in my chest at the thought. 'Weak,' a mental voice hisses.

But... I can't even remember the last time someone made a play for me, made it clear they were interested in me... wanted me. And _this_ man... this man who has so many reasons to hate me, to never forgive me. This man I actually respect. This man I can talk to, who talks to me, who treats me like a person and lets me out of my head and listens and feels so... safe.

"Walter." And suddenly it sounds different. Feels different in my mouth. Walter. He's warm and safe and strong and here and... and it's been so long. So long since I've touched, held, been held. It would be... nice. And he wants me. Wants me as I am. Enough to take a chance. Enough to actually proposition me, without knowing how I'd respond.

"I don't know what—" I don't even finish the sentence. Because I do know what to say. I'm seeing him in a different light and I _understand_ now, and I know I can open my mouth and say 'yes' and fall forward and he'll catch me. And he'll hold me. And I can rest. And be touched, and feel connected, and he won't judge.

And he's not Mulder.

I could hate myself for thinking it but it's omnipresent. I don't want it to matter but it does, and how can it not? He's a good man and what he's offering... it's so much more than I deserve. How can I accept, knowing what I'm thinking, knowing he deserves better. I don't think he's trying to be my safety net. I can't just take what he's offering and wrap it around myself like a blanket, only to ignore whatever he might be feeling.

And if he didn't _know_ about Mulder, maybe it wouldn't matter, because I wouldn't tell him, and we could be... something to each other. But he does know, and I know he knows, and I can't just ignore it. Can't let him ignore it, or think that my acceptance of what he's offering means that it's changed. Because it hasn't, and I don't know that it will. He's a good man, and he's not like me, and he's looking at me like I mean something. And no one has ever looked at me like that and I want him to keep doing it but I just can't take advantage of it because I don't think I've ever had a friend before and he _is_. And I want to keep him and this is it, this is where that horrible feeling, that premonition was coming from and I knew, didn't I? I knew I didn't want to hear this because I can't say yes and I can't say no and either way I lose him and I don't want to.

I promised myself. I promised myself I'd be different, the best way I could. And if anyone deserves that difference as much as Mulder, it's the man in front of me. It hurts when I open my mouth and say, "I'm incredibly flattered." I have to stop, swallow. Try again. "But I know—I know you know... know how—" I can't go on. I can't say this. Can't talk about being in love with someone else in the face of this gift. The gift of his regard, the gift of the want I see in his eyes, on his face. Felt in his kiss. And I ache.

But suddenly he's nodding, and smiling. I haven't even managed to spit it out and he's apparently reading my mind because he strokes my face and says, "You know I understand. About Lois. It's just like I said first off, but I think you were still too stunned to hear me. I'm not asking for _anything_ you don't want to give. I don't say things I don't mean. Not anymore I don't. Believe me, I've got my eyes wide open."

And I could cry. I won't, because I don't do that. But I could, because he means it. What he's offering... the openness, the sheer generosity of self. I feel my whole body, my whole being, soften and incline toward him. I want to curl up inside him and never leave. He understands. He means it. He knows and he's still offering. He's not asking for it to be different, or asking me to pretend it's different. And I don't have to say no. He knows.

I don't let myself think about it. I can't, or I'm sure to find some other reason why I can't do this. And I have to let myself because no one's ever given me a gift like this and I want it so badly. And maybe it's still not fair to him but I trust him, dammit. I trust him... if he says he has his eyes open, he does. I lean forward, still scarcely believing I'm doing this, and press my lips to his, not lingering, just brushing. Moving on, to his cheek, back to his mouth, so careful. Asking with each press. Are you sure? Are you sure, Walter?

"Alex..." His voice is rough. His voice quavers. His voice is beautiful.

I let my mouth rest on his a little awkwardly, opening my lips slowly, tongue flicking out to ghost his lips then pull back. And it's like flipping a switch, opening a cage, and between one instant and the next he's on me, and we're on the floor and I'm on my back and he's kissing me again, like he did at first, that rough possession that is so _damn_ perfect. He's not Mulder and it's... okay. I whimper against his mouth because it's just _so_... and his tongue is back and demanding and then he's releasing my mouth and lifting his head.

"I can take this as a yes?"

The hoarseness of his voice thrills me beyond belief. _He wants me._ My face splits in an uncontrollable smile. "Yes." His face moves toward mine and suddenly I just have to tell him... try to anyway. My hand is at his lips before I realize I've decided to keep his mouth off mine for a minute longer. His eyebrows lift, but his tongue just plays with my fingers like he would with my mouth. I gasp at the sensation of wet heat, sucking in my finger, and stare at the entirely too sexy image of his lips surrounding me. My voice is breathless when I manage to look back up to his eyes. "Walter—"

"Yes?" he murmurs around my finger.

"Thank you. For saying something. And for understanding." It feels too raw and I have to look away for a moment, but then I force myself to look back, meet his gaze. If he can walk into this with his eyes open, so can I. "About Lois."

And something changes in him. He releases my fingers from his mouth. His face softens and the raw urgency recedes, the depth of his care rising in his expression and tugging my guilt strings again even as it thrills me. When he brings his lips back to mine they're like butterfly wings. "You're welcome." And with his words he rolls off me. I miss his weight immediately.

Wait a minute... I just said yes. Where are you going? Get your ass back down here.

He stands, grinning at me as if he can hear the words in my head, catches my hand and pulls me to my feet as well. He draws me one step closer and then snakes his arms under my coat, around me, pulling me close as his hands stroke my back. I stiffen, because here it is... I'm in his arms. Not under his body on the floor while he kisses me senseless. Just standing in his arms. And the force of the need hits me so hard I feel like I could cry all over again.

I don't want to need this. It's so dangerous. But I do.

And the need is sick of being ignored. It chases the tension out of me, and my body molds to his warmth, wanting closer... closer. Without conscious permission from my brain I find my arm winding up to wrap around his neck, settle across his shoulders. I press my face into his throat and inhale. I try not to cling as the sensations of being hugged by Walter Skinner roll through me... just like I knew they would. He takes my weight against him like it's nothing. My muscle relax and I rest against his solidity and just breathe. And I feel safe. Cared for.

I could stay here for hours.

I'm just resting in the delicious circle of his arms when his hands move, and rise to guide my jacket off my shoulders. I don't want to give up the embrace, but the same force of will I used to keep myself from clinging like a drowning man helps me to lift my face, let my arm slide off his shoulder, so he can remove the coat. Then he's ducking forward and his tongue is hot and wet on my collarbone, and I have to laugh... it's the hole in my shirt, it has to be. He's licking me through it and the sensation chases through me, making me wriggle. It's distracting enough that I don't even notice he's lifting my shirt until he's got it up past my stomach and still rising. Almost to the straps. I freeze. There are a lot of reasons it's been such a long time.

"Too much too soon?" His voice is soft, too understanding.

I jerk back from his arms, stuttering. But I don't want him thinking I'm backing out on him. "No." I shake my head but I won't look directly at him. Fuck, I can't believe this is the first I've thought of this little... complication. But I haven't... since the arm I just don't... I don't like to be naked with it myself, to say nothing of other people. "It's okay," I manage, "I just—"

"Whatever makes you comfortable, Alex," he interrupts, voice unchanged. His hand lifts, settling on my left shoulder with gentle weight. "Whatever you like. And I'd like you to know that I'd be happy with the shirt off, but do whatever feels better to you."

My eyes jerk back to his, blinking. Christ, who is this man? _Is_ he reading my mind? Is Mulder contagious or something? Everything I come up against, he's there before I am. Making it okay. And he means it, I can see it in his face. He won't mind either way, if I leave it on or off. Whatever feels better to me.

And I want to feel him when I hold him. Feel skin on skin. If I'm letting myself do this, I want all the warmth I can soak up, all the human contact he'll give me. I don't want the weight and the straps and the chafing... I wonder if I can ask him to just not look at it. The light's low.

And I'm stalling.

I shift and turn away, gripping my shirt and lifting it over my head, down the arm. I undo the straps and release the weight, bending and setting the arm carefully on my coat. I straighten and feel a little lightheaded, keeping my left side tilted away from him. The air is cool on my skin. Standing here, half naked, this feels unreal. I'm not in that protective circle of his arms anymore and my breathing is doing funny things in my chest and I feel awkward. Given the opportunity, my mind is still stumbling around over the concept that he wants me. That he could get past our past and be able to look at me the way he's looking at me now.

"Thank you, Alex," he says in that deep rumble of his, and I almost jump out of my skin. The words are weighty with meaning and I shake my head... it's nothing to thank me for. I'm just being selfish, making him put up with the ugliness so I can get somewhat closer, leach all the warmth and feeling I can from this encounter. "Yes," he contradicts me before I can say anything, lifting his hand to stroke my chest gently. "Thank you for the trust."

The word makes me shiver. My skin feels hypersensitive, my nipples already stiff from his thumb ghosting so close to them. As if he sees my tremble, he reaches for me again and pulls me to him, rubbing his face in my hair. His hands are suddenly everywhere, then dropping down low and he strokes then squeezes my ass and I love that, his hand hard and strong and possessive and I realize with a start that the needy noise I hear is me. I flush and press my face against his shoulder. I have to bite my lip hard to keep from whimpering again as both hands cup my ass cheeks and lift and fondle with enthusiasm, rubbing through the worn denim and sending bursts of sensation rocketing through me. Then his fingers probe between my cheeks, following the seam of my jeans, and I can't help it, I wriggle in his grip, pushing my erection against the welcome friction of his thigh.

My breathing picks up and I want to touch him back, make his skin tingle too. I tug at the buttons on his shirt and they give, baring his chest. My fingers twist into the wiry curls to the flesh beneath. Hair. Weird. Mulder... mostly bare chest... in my mind, there's never hair. I try to shake the thought as I drag my hand down over his stomach to his jeans, then burrow my fingers under his waistband. He destroys my coordination with a sudden sharp nip to my earlobe and my hips jerk against his thigh. I moan when he runs his tongue over the bite and then sucks. I love that too but I can't complain when his mouth leaves my ear because it travels on down my neck, teeth scraping. Once at my throat he nuzzles and sucks from one side to the other, finding every spot that makes me respond and toying with it until I'm making noises I can't control. I grip his jeans tighter just to stay on my feet when he sinks his teeth just hard enough to hurt and sucks good and strong.

I can't catch my breath as his hands shift off my ass, one sliding up to support my back, the other sliding down and around and back up, over the front of my jeans this time. His sure fingers torment me, rubbing at my crotch, making my damn jeans even tighter. It's been way too long and I can't stop squirming. My cock throbs in response to his touch and I feel it leaking, my underwear getting damp. I want his hand on me, I want out of these pants before the denim catches fire. I try to keep my hips still without much success when he finally starts to unzip me. Then the bastard stops completely and steps back.

I try to suck in enough air to yell at him when he grips the open crotch of my jeans and tugs me toward my pile of blankets on the floor. He looks directly at me and nods down at the blankets in question. I look from them to him and find I still can't exactly speak so I just nod. Yes. Oh yes. The floor looks damn good. It's so nice and horizontal. He lowers himself gracefully down, still dragging me by my jeans and I collapse next to him, too overwhelmed to make any kind of controlled descent. I feel as off-balance emotionally as I am physically and it's a foreign experience. Control is the name of my game but mine is gone and I'm not used to that. The floor under my ass and the cool of the room against the heat of my skin and the sheer presence of the man in front of me... and reality twists all over again. Is this really happening? Me and Walter Skinner? My brain trips.

He rises to his knees and strips off his shirt... and reality and control are so overrated. The ripple of muscle in candlelight sweeps it all away, and then his hands go for his jeans and I feel a rush of anticipation. Oh yeah, this is definitely happening. The jeans part and slide off his hips and... yeeow. Pure animal hunger rises in me at the size of the cock enthusiastically tenting his briefs.

I want that in me. My ass aches in the best way just at the thought and I have to keep myself from squirming again. My sphincter muscles tighten and release and my cock pulses. I tear my eyes away with an effort and let them wander up over his body until I reach his face. I don't know what he sees in my gaze, but he's suddenly moving faster, sitting down and stripping off his jeans, his boots, his glasses. I can't get enough of just watching his body move and stretch and then he's coming closer, reaching for me again and holding me still while his mouth catches mine. His weight leans into me and I'm falling over backward and he's got me, he's stretching me out on the floor like a sacrifice and kissing me... kissing me...

He only stops when I'm gasping for air, and then only to move on, his mouth fastening on one nipple then the other, licking them up into hard aching peaks and then breathing softly across the wet flesh. Tingle... tighten... The sharp sensation rips a moan from my throat, then another... and another... as he envelops one nipple in his mouth and starts to suck, hard. I grunt, gasp, catch him around the shoulders to anchor myself as my torso arches up off the floor, pressing up into his mouth, begging for more... more. His cock is pressing hot and hard and _big_ against my thigh, and my ass wants it and my tits ache for him and oh... oh _fuck_... oh... his hand... his hand climbs down inside my open jeans and gathers up my cock and my hips are arching too. My fingers dig into the solid muscle of his shoulder and I want to scream as his hand simply holds me, heavy on my cock, imprisoning it in a perfectly careless way that makes heat burn through my groin. His mouth travels away from sore nipples, down over the soft flesh of my stomach and bites. I whimper. His hand leaves my cock and I want to scream.

When I catch my breath he's sitting beside me, tugging my jeans down. I lift my hips and just the undulation sends a sizzle of heat to my cock. He guides my jeans down and pauses, his head dipping to press a soft kiss to my left knee. In the midst of the jumble of sizzling sensual pleasure, my chest squeezes and my eyes burn. This man... I swallow hard, the gesture is so damn sweet. He stops again at my ankles to get my boots off, and then my jeans are gone, no longer hobbling my legs together and his hand is working its warm way up the inside of my thigh and my knees are spreading. My breath hisses out between clenched teeth and my body tenses but his hand stops, a searing brand on the sensitive flesh of my inner thigh. I want to spread my legs and pull him into me, I want to roll over and have him rip the underwear off my ass and lift myself to him, or better yet have him grip my hips and lift my ass for me, prop me up and... and I have no idea what he wants. Christ, I thought he was straight until about fifteen minutes ago. I haven't actually spent any time considering Walter Skinner's sexual tastes. I've been a little preoccupied with someone else. And as turned on as I am, I really don't need to be thinking about Mulder right now. Shooting at this point in the game is not on my agenda.

Walter's eyes roam over my body from feet to crotch to nose and then his eyes settle on mine. They don't give me any clue as to what he might like either, and his hand between my legs is going to make me beg in about four seconds flat. "What do you want?" I almost cringe at the rough, breathy quality my voice has.

He stares at me for a short lifetime, then smiles that open, sweet smile. "To make you stop thinking, just for a little while."

Fuck. My eyes burn again and if I thought guilt strings were getting plucked before, it's nothing to now. Make me stop thinking. Take me out of my head. My throat tightens because he knows what I need and he's giving it to me with open hands and not asking anything in return. I'm struck again by the generosity of what he's offering. Knowing me like he does. Knowing what I am, knowing what I can't be... what I can't give. Because you just don't do this for someone because they've had a hard day, or a hard month, or a hard rebellion. You do this for someone you care about. Then he lies down beside me and takes me back in his arms and as my legs move, his thigh pushes between mine and I let everything in my head go. Open eyes.

I shift closer and reach my mouth back for his, and try to thank him with a kiss. I sure as hell couldn't say what I mean even if I tried. His hand goes unerringly to my ass again, apparently he likes that as much as I do, and I nip his lip in dizzy pleasure. His fingers crawl under the elastic of my briefs and close on flesh, squeezing and rubbing and I ride against his thigh in abandon. Yes. Touch me like you own me. Manhandle me. My arousal leaps as he shifts on top of me again, big and bulky and heavy... powerful. He stiffens and starts to withdraw almost immediately, and without thinking I tighten my arm, dig in with my fingers, hold him where he is. Where I need him. I don't know why he's pulling back but I can't let him.

I can't think how to communicate what I need from him, what I need during sex. It's always odd when you're working without the obvious cues and I doubt telling him I play to the right will click for him and it's been so long since I've had to figure out how to ask or tell someone. And if it was Mulder it'd be one thing because our interactions have always been so loaded like _that_ anyway and somehow I don't think I'd even need to tell him or ask him or say _anything_ but this isn't Mulder. This is Walter... he's different. All I've got to go on is his damn alpha-male act and I obviously haven't been picking up his signals very well if I thought he was fucking _straight_. And there's that respect thing again. I don't want to lose any ground I've gained with him, and I'm too far gone to figure out the best way to pitch this. "Skinner... Walter... will you—" I can't make my brain work in concert with my tongue. I open my mouth again and suddenly words just fall out. "Walter, will you fuck me?"

Well, that's an easy way. Not a guarantee of course and not exactly what I mean but it might work.

He goes completely still and I wonder for a minute if I've totally fucked up. Maybe he doesn't do that or doesn't want to or doesn't want to with me. I stare into his stunned eyes and try to catch my breath enough to keep speaking, keep my voice even and conversational. "You don't have to. If that's not what you want." He blinks and stares and a sinking sense of disappointment settles in my chest, heightened intolerably by the burning hardness nestled against my hip. That would feel so good. I'm wondering how to back us out of this corner I've got us in when he opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again.

"I'd love to," he finally breathes, and the tension goes out of me, my eyes closing in relief. Oh, that'll work. My mind lets go and I can't stop the smile stretching my mouth or the impulse of my hips to buck up against his solidity, rubbing back and forth between the pressure on my cock and that _hand_ on my ass. He starts tugging my underwear down and my breathing ratchets up, my wriggling intensifying. Yes, exactly, yes. I can feel his hard-on shift with each movement I make and I want more... a lot more. He's got my underwear down to my thighs and I open my eyes and reach for his briefs, dragging the cotton down and over his cock, my mouth going dry as his erection springs into view. Hard and eager and... thick. So thick. I wrap my fingers around it, I can't resist, and savor the feel of him in my hand until he grabs my wrist, pulling me away.

"Alex... wait. Don't..."

I don't want to let go but I also don't want him going off before he fucks me. He moves back and I let him. He sits up, reaches for his pants. If he's getting dressed now, I'll have to kill him. Then I realize he's going for something in his pocket and... my brows go up at the familiar shape of the squat tin. Vaseline. How... Boy Scout of him. And I was thinking he might not want to fuck me? Hell, I was thinking this man was _straight_? He turns back to me and I can't resist teasing. "Optimistic?" I ask archly.

He pauses and I can see the gears turning in something like worry. I don't let him off the hook, but then his lips quirk in an almost smile. "Optimistic," he confirms with a shrug. "Besides, would you want me around if I wasn't prepared for every eventuality?" He strips off his underwear and then he's dragging mine off me. The last barriers gone and his eagerness established, I go ahead and spread for him, lifting my knees and letting my thighs fall apart. The simple act of submission sends a lance of heat straight through my cock. The struck look on his face is suitably gratifying.

"Mmmm," I mutter, my brows going up again as if considering his question. I'm actually damn glad he thought of lube. Although it begs the question, exactly how much thinking did he do about this? And how much of a sure thing did he think I was? And do I really care? Looking at him looking at me with naked want on his face, I don't think I do. And I'm done teasing. I let my voice drop into a throaty purr. "Optimism can be good. It can be nice to have an optimist around."

The almost smile takes on a life of its own at that, and he moves closer to me, popping the top on the grease. He sets the container on my stomach. It's warm from nesting in his jeans' pocket. He dips one finger in and then takes his time spreading the glistening jelly over all his fingers. His fingers are thick too. Long, thick, strong. Dexterous. My mouth is dry again and just watching his intent movements has my cock twitching. I want those fingers in my ass so bad I can taste the sensation. Suddenly the fingers I'm admiring wave at me, and I jerk my eyes up to see him grinning, watching me ogle his hand. I shoot him the best glare I can manage under the circumstances, and then his hand disappears between my legs.

I suck in a breath as he feels around behind my balls, his palm chafing my sac with every twist of his fingers. He's not being tentative and I can't keep from spreading my thighs wider, opening myself to him, to the feeling of being probed, opened. Vulnerable. My breath catches on a sigh and then he's playing with me with his other hand, stroking my cock, cupping my balls and massaging them. I'm on edge already. The stimulation in my ass, his slick fingers breaching me, stretching my hole, filling me... the careful hand rubbing my balls. I can hear a voice rising and falling in a steady litany of nonsense and realize with a start that it's me. Jesus, I have to stop making so much noise. I try to stop my tongue but find my brain disconnecting, my body taking over. His fingers inside me find what they're looking for and—

"Jesus Christ! Oh... fuck... god..." My eyes squeeze tightly closed, my hand grips the blanket so hard I think I rip it. I catch my breath then bite my lip as... "Unh!" He does it again, his fingers rubbing firmly over the knot of nerves, intense pleasure arcing through me, his other hand still keeping a hold on my balls, keeping me from moving my hips. Too perfect. I whine incoherently and then his fingers are retreating.

"You comfortable?"

The words hold no meaning for me. I just want those fingers back. Inside me, opening me up, rubbing... I blink my eyes open and try to protest the loss, only to see him spreading the Vaseline on his cock. Oh yes. Oh definitely yes. "Yeah, I'm good," I manage to rasp, short of ordering him to get his cock in my ass as of yesterday. He positions himself between my legs and inches closer. I wonder fleetingly how much this is going to hurt... it really has been a while for me.

And damn, I cannot wait.

His cock slides wetly along my spread ass, and I want to scream. It feels even bigger not being able to see it, if possible. I'm practically hyperventilating when he finally lets go of my balls, hands catching me under my thighs and lifting and spreading me, a delicious feeling in and of itself. And there... oh yes... his cock is just _there_ and nudging forward and I relax against him while he holds me open and presses forward and he's in... in and in and in and... _in_... and oh god I can't breathe... and he's going so slow... so fucking slow... and my head jerks back and my hips jerk up and I see stars as his hips respond before he can stop himself, thrusting hard and—

"YES!" Oh yes yes yes. All the way in and just what I wanted... thick and glorious and stretching me wide and I can't stand it can't stand it... it's too good and too much and I can't help but bear down on him, feel the full intrusion, then relax with a groan and do it again. And again. _Again_. I can't stay still, squirming under him, pinned on his cock and my legs stretched wide. And he's not moving, he's so still. I want more... I need more... I can feel the pressure on my prostate, but it's not enough... I want the friction, dammit, I need it. I'm going to go crazy without it. I need him to move in me, make me feel it, really feel it. My legs scissor closed around his hips, pulling him in tighter against me, and it works... he's suddenly thrusting, hard, fast, pulling back and driving in again and again and I can't stop the breathless, aching moans every time his cock rides into me. I lay open beneath him, every thrust pushing me higher, when he suddenly slows, stops the frantic, perfect movements. No... god... don't stop...

I squirm helplessly under him, trying to urge him on faster again, a whining yip like a dog in heat escaping my throat. But he's in control now and he's keeping it, moving his cock in and out of me to his own rhythm, making me feel every inch of it. Oh... yeah... the slow thrusting is torture. Pure sparkling insane torture that I wish could last forever even as I can't... stand... one... more... instant. My stomach muscles ache as I try to buck my hips and speed him up again. Not enough... too much... not enough...

His fingers close around my cock and I can only moan helplessly. No words are left, I'm beyond coherence, I can only stare up at him and tear holes in the blanket and let him do whatever he wants to me. His fingers tease me back to full hardness, taking his time, his cock never losing its rhythm. His hand is still slick, his skin hot as mine, his touch steady and perfect as he strokes and squeezes and thrusts and strokes and squeezes and thrusts...

And I can't... I just can't... I want it to go on and on but there's no way I can last. Too soon I feel the swelling pressure in my groin, the heaviness and the heat and there... reach... _yes_...

I tense... erupt... spasms... whitehot pleasure. Bursts repeat... eyes close... stars... burn...

It's over and my entire body goes liquid in release. I can only blink up at him in awe as he leans over me and oh _god_ he didn't come. Can't say as I noticed at the time but now... oh... oh... oh. The feel of him still hard and huge in my ass and I'm completely wasted, my legs can't even grip him, my muscles water. All I can do is angle my hips, open and relaxed, take him in as he rides me to his own finish, staring down at me like... like...

Like I'm something special.

And I stare up at him and he's not the one I wanted, not the one I dream about. Not the one I yearn for and not the one I changed for. Not the one I fantasize about and jerk off to and not the one I ever pictured doing this with. But he's him, and he's here, and he's so real and so... Walter. And I wonder if he realizes that I'm seeing him so clearly... that I'm not seeing someone else even when my eyes are closed, not pretending he's someone else. I can't not think about the one I do dream about, but I know who I'm with and I know who's making me feel this way and I know why I said yes. "Walter." It's barely a whisper but it doesn't matter because I'm not really talking to him but to myself.

Walter.

He collapses on top of me and goes still, face dropping to nestle into my throat. I catch my breath slowly as he softens and slips from my body. His weight is starting to get uncomfortable but I wait for him to rouse on his own, staring up at my ceiling as sensory overload recedes and my ability to think crawls back in. My stomach is wet and sticky and sweat is cooling on my body. The raw vulnerability of the sex makes me feel like I've just stripped my soul bare, and I need a little space. Emotional, physical... I've never been a post-sex cuddler. Sex... good sex, the kind that really works for me... cracks me too wide open. I feel too exposed. I need the distance to get my head back together. To pull back a little from the surrender impulse.

I twitch without meaning to, and he finally seems to come to, shifting his weight and sliding off me to my left. I tug up a fold of the blanket, wipe off my stomach, his cock. I don't know that he even notices in his daze. He settles onto his side, arms trying to pull me into the curve of his body. The heat of him is almost too much now, and I stiffen. I don't want to hurt his feelings, especially after what he just gave me... but I can't. I just can't. Too much too soon and I just can't. Not right after sex. I don't jerk away but I resist the tug of his arms and he releases me, reading my subtle signs again.

I wonder if I should worry that he can read me so well.

But I don't worry. All I get is a sudden rush of feeling, of gratitude, sweeping over me as I shift a few inches away. Not too far... just enough to breathe. I can still feel his presence, solid and steady beside me. With my bit of space achieved, relaxation and contentment roll through me, a delicious lassitude as my body sings its satisfaction. I can't remember the last time I felt this way. I don't know if I ever have. I've had good sex before. Sex that really worked. But I've never exactly been touched by it.

I keep staring at my sky, pulling together the scattered bits of me and trying to put them back in the right order. My stars glitter down at me, and an odd thought occurs as my eyes track from one to the next in lazy patterns. Before I know it, the thought trips off my tongue. "You know, I think I know what they mean about that lack of oxygen in outer space now. For awhile there I was definitely having trouble breathing."

I don't look at him to see his reaction. Just saying the words was enough of a stretch for me and I already can't believe I said that. And that's all it takes... between one instant and the next my mind turns over the wrong rock and I realize with a start that I have no idea what time it is, how long I've been here with him, what meetings I'm missing. Tension returns to my muscles and I jerk. "Fuck... what time—I was supposed to—"

"Relax." His voice is soothing, soft. He doesn't move, just stays lounging on his side, reaching out to rest his hand on my chest for a bare moment, before pulling back, as if scared of crowding me. I appreciate the insight even as I wonder again at how he's reading me so well. "I canceled the rest of your day," he continues calmly. "At least for the next couple hours."

That gets me looking at him like nothing else could. I can only stare at him in shock. He what? Oddly, my first impulse is to laugh out loud. He canceled the rest of my day? He _canceled_ the rest of my day? How the hell... _what_ did he think... the fucking nerve! Of all the high-handed, authoritarian... Nobody sets my schedule but me and... and...

He canceled my day. To seduce me.

The laugh wants to bubble up again, even as real irritation underscores it. He just stares back at me, not the least bit concerned or apologetic as I blunder around in my mind, trying to figure out how to react. Finally, the appropriate response, the only response, rises to the forefront of my mind. I life one eyebrow and ask, once again, "Optimistic?"

His grin is positively wicked, and a very good look on him, now that I'm noticing that sort of thing. "Optimistic," he agrees readily.

"Blind optimism can get you in trouble," I purr, letting an edge of danger color the words.

"So can lack of oxygen," he returns mildly, and I feel heat rise in my cheeks even as a burst of pleasure warms my chest. I still can't believe I said that.

Of its own accord, my hand lifts and reaches out toward his face, before I catch myself and rein in the movement. My eyes skate away from his heated gaze and lift back to my stars. My breathless outer space. It's not just the lack of oxygen, Walter. You're more like my stars than you know. My improbable safety. My unexpected sanity. I blink back the burn, refocus on him, and say it the only way I can get it out. "Walter Skinner, you are... stellar."

His eyes flare, his face softens. I think he understands. Even if he doesn't, exactly, he'll still be there trying. And that alone is more than anyone has ever done. My eyelids sink under the heaviness of the comfort swelling through me, and I let them close. We have a lot to do, the two of us. Tonight's the night. I can't think of a better gift to walk into battle with, and this could be my last moment to rest. Safe. An impossible sense of well-being suffuses me.

The stars are on my side. 

* * *

Disclaimer: I don't hail CC anymore. Chilled nods to him, 1013, and Fox for their ownership, because I respect ownership, if nothing else. Still no money made.   
Feedback: [email removed] Feed the giant snakes.   
Pairing: Ongoing confusion.   
This story is part of the Resist and Serve series. Oxygen is the companion piece to Optimism, because I wanted to flip the coin and do Alex's POV on those events. Same story from another set of eyes.   
All stories can be found at 'the compound' www.strangeplaces.net/ratadder and at ned&leny's delightful RatB site http://www.squidge.org/~terma/ratadder/ratadder.htm   
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